Timelines
by Kikoughela
Summary: OC's abound in a mixed genre attempt at Star Trek fanfiction. Included feats: teleportation, time travel, Cardassian/Human miscegenation, Romulan plots, Irish dancing, Irish ballads, etc. Please suspend your disbelief.  Sequel now up in TNG/DS9 crossove
1. Chapter 1

Summary: OC's abound in a mixed genre attempt at Star Trek fanfiction. Included feats: teleportation, time travel, Cardassian/Human miscegenation, Romulan plots, salsa dancing, Irish ballads, etc. Please suspend your disbelief. Eventual cross-over with DS9.

Disclaimer: Star Trek and its subsidiaries ain't mine, don't own em'. Any name you don't recognize from the series=all mine. All the rest are borrowed from their respective owners (Paramount & Co., etc.).

Rating: You kids and your ratings. Whatever happened to PG? (You have to be loyal readers and wait for the NC-17 goodies, which I just found out can't be read on . We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.)

Chapter One: Timelines

The soft murmuring of voices woke her.

There was the voice of a man nearest her, his speech deep and gravelly, though he spoke softly. There were two others speaking farther away, murmuring, arguing; one was a man, but the other was female, and her tone was insistent. All this the woman gathered from listening, though she found she could not open her eyes. She stared into the squiggly blackness against her eyelids. Her head was foggy and her thoughts came slowly, as if awakening from a long dream. She could not distinguish what the people were saying, their words muted and garbled. There was a steady beeping in the background.

The man nearest her began to touch her head, his hands gently moving across her scalp and down her forehead. His palm was cool against her skin, which she quickly realized ached considerably. A spasm wracked her body and she realized that it was not only her skin that hurt; her body ached with a greater pain than she had ever experienced. It was worse than her broken arm in primary school when she had fallen off a rock trestle along the river; it was worse than her car wreck at twenty-five, when she had totaled her Volvo into the side of Matt Malloy's pub, the shiesty, two-timing bastard. Six weeks in the hospital had not been as excruciating as this.

The man's hand continued, oblivious of her discomfort, moving, probing down her neck and chest. She tried to open her eyes, raise her head and cry out against the pain, but her breath rushed out of her in agony. It hurt too badly to scream.

The man removed his hand. "I believe the patient is regaining consciousness," he said. The beeping increased its tempo. The other two ceased their argument.

Breathing deeply, she focused on her eyelids, willing them to open. Her head throbbed as light seeped through the cracks, brilliant and blinding. She hissed in pain but forced them further apart, wincing as the light came into focus. The light hanged from the low ceiling; three bulbs arranged triangularly glared down at her. She was displayed on a table, she discovered, a hard one, staring up at operating lights as in a surgery room.

She shifted her eyes to the man who hovered over her, the one who had touched her. She looked up into his eyes, breath caught briefly in her throat.

Then she saw his face and finally screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Timelines

Dr. Beverly Crusher waited on the transporter platform impatiently.

"I'll be just another minute, doctor," Chief O'Brien said apologetically, working with the controls on his consol. "We're running into some interference."

Crusher scoffed impatiently as if she had expected nothing less. "I have a patient in serious condition on that Cardassian ship, Chief," she snapped. "She may not have another minute."

"There you go, you're all set," he said, glancing at her with an overwhelming sense of relief. Dr. Crusher could always be counted on to be pushy in an emergency. "Energizing."

"Thank you," she replied, before dematerializing in a wave of glittery particles.

Arriving onboard the Cardassian warship _Saharon_, she took little note of the sudden rise in temperature or the decreased lighting. She also forewent the traditional pleasantries. "Take me to sickbay," she commanded the Glinn who awaited her arrival. The Glinn, whose name she had not even registered, nodded curtly and led her out the door. They proceeded down a series of dim, oppressive hallways, lit intermittently by small ineffective lamps along the walls. The ceilings were lower than on the _Enterprise_, but Dr. Crusher took little notice. They walked briskly as she reviewed the patient's latest condition on her medical pad, sent over from the _Saharon_ to brief her before her departure. The information was spotty at best, probably not due to the Cardassian doctor's lack of attention to detail, but from ignorance of human physiology.

It was a strange case, that much was certain. The patient, a human woman, had appeared in space just as the _Enterprise_ exited warp along the Cardassian neutral zone. They were minimally late for their rendezvous with the _Saharon_. The warship awaited them with a Cardassian ambassador onboard. The _Enterprise_ was prepared to welcome the ambassador aboard to discuss treaty amendments, and their tardiness hardly seemed an issue, Picard had muttered to her in private. These negotiations and diplomatic affairs would likely drag on for weeks.

But no sooner had they dropped out of warp and prepared for the customary greetings had the woman appeared in a flash of light, floating, without protection, in space. Had the Cardassian ship not been prepared and standing by for transport, the woman would have died from exposure and decompression. Before the _Enterprise_ could rally itself to pluck her from the deadly vastness of space, the Cardassians had transported her to their medical facilities. What followed of course was the excited and hostile tête-à-tête between Captain Picard and Gul Mosel. Dr. Crusher had not been present and did not know the details, but it was finally agreed for her to transport to the _Saharon_ and lend her medical capabilities. From the look of the assessment given on her data pad as she stalked down the hallway, it was a damn good thing they had allowed her passage.

As to why the woman had appeared? Or how? Dr. Crusher had not allowed much thought to that question as she packed her medical kit. Neither the crew of the _Enterprise_ nor the Cardassians had any answers (though, again privately as he escorted her to the transport pad, Picard said this unexplained incident did not bode well for diplomatic relations).

The Cardassian captain, Gul Mosel, insisted that the woman could not be moved due to her medical trauma, though Crusher expected it was more of a ruse to hold the human as a negotiating ploy in the event of Federation subterfuge. None of Picard's pleas of ignorance allayed Mosel's suspicions.

Damn those Cardassians, Crusher thought, as they arrived at the sickbay. The Glinn ushered her inside and she wasted no time in barraging the Cardassian doctor, who introduced himself as Arlin Sazon, for an update on the patient's condition. Dr. Sazon patiently led her to the woman's bed and Crusher whipped out her tricorder, suppressing with occupational authority the bile and unease that rose in her throat at the patient's appearance.

"Her condition is critical," Sazon was saying. "She has suffered severe internal hemorrhaging as a result of the decompression, and several patches of skin have been affected."

"Yes, we call it 'frostbite' in laymen's terms," Crusher said, continuing her scan. "It's quite severe, but not unexpected. I am monitoring brain activity. We won't know more until we have her under a neural scanner to determine if there was any brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Her breathing is being assisted by your unit, I assume."

"Yes," he said. "I'm afraid my knowledge of human physiology is not as comprehensive as some of my colleagues, but I followed necessary procedures. It will be beneficial to have you assist with the patient," he said.

Crusher spared him a reproachful glance. "I should hope that would be obvious," she said icily. She removed her sub-dermal regenerator from her medical kit and began at the patient's feet (she noted the Cardassians had already cut away her clothing; it rested in a bag next to the bed). The frostbite appeared the worst at the extremities, as was expected, so she worked her way patiently around. "Have you administered any drugs aside from the sedative and pain reliever?"

"No," Sazon replied. "I thought it best to wait for your appraisal." He had stepped slightly away from the bed, but hovered near her shoulder to observe. Crusher nodded curtly. "This is an excellent opportunity to observe human medical trauma," he continued, his tone bordering on excitement.

Crusher sighed, irritated. Although she appreciated the care Dr. Sazon had administered to the patient, his eagerness was a trifle disconcerting. As much as she would like to tell the Cardassian to take a hike, she was their guest and it would not 'bode well' for diplomatic relations. As the patient's skin began to regenerate, Crusher moved on to examine the more critical injuries.

While her attention was otherwise occupied, the door opened to the sickbay and Gul Mosel stalked in. He cleared his throat and the doctors turned toward him.

"Dr. Crusher," he said authoritatively, "it's a pleasure to have you onboard." Crusher nodded. "And how is our patient?" He stepped toward the bed.

"Her superficial injuries aren't concerning me as much as the internal hemorrhaging. Treating her here will be difficult."

"You wish to export her to the _Enterprise_?" Gul Mosel crossed his arms. "Are our medical facilities inadequate? I've certainly never heard any complaints."

Crusher handed her tool to Sazon. "Please continue this, doctor," she said, and turned to Mosel. She took a breath and crossed her arms. "I want to be prepared for any contingencies. In a situation such as this, any instability in a patient's condition can be exacerbated by a delay in machines or even in the time it takes for a translator to determine a discrepancy in tone. On top of all of that," she said, throwing up her hands and putting them on her hips, "I can't read the Kardassi on your medical equipment!"

As their argument increased in tempo, Dr. Sazon continued with the sub-dermal regenerator. He finished the patient's face, gliding the generator down her nose in a final, sweeping gesture. "Fascinating," he murmured. "Computer, take note: the human subcutaneous layer is the third and last layer of human skin, analogous to the Cardassian dermal fourth layer in regulating temperature throughout the body. The patient is responding well to treatment." He looked down at the patient and put aside his tool. He put his hand on the crown of her head and probed her skull down to her forehead and sinuses, continually making observations and notations for the computer to record into his medical log. Surveying her nasal ridge, he drew back suddenly as her eyelids flickered.

"Gul Mosel, doctor?" The pair turned to him. "I believe the patient is regaining consciousness."

"Her heart rate is rising," Crusher said, hurrying toward the woman with her tricorder. The woman's eyelids flickered again and her eyes opened. Her eyes seemed to focus on the light overhead, which Dr. Crusher had insisted they further illuminate.

"Is she coherent?" Gul Mosel stepped forward eagerly and put his hand on her forehead. "Can she understand me?"

The woman turned to the sound of his voice. Mosel gazed down into her eyes and noticed abstractly that they were a hazy blue. He smiled gently. Her gaze cleared and her chest heaved.

The woman screamed.

Dr. Crusher rushed forward and pushed Mosel aside. "I need twenty milligrams of lectrazine. We need to lower her heart rate." Sazon handed her a hypospray and she pressed it against the woman's arm. The scream died in her throat and her head flopped to the side. Crusher sighed and leaned against the table. "That did the trick."

"Can you please explain what just occurred, Dr. Crusher? I am not accustomed to being screamed at in my sickbay." Mosel crossed his arms again and glared at her.

"I need to run more tests," she said, barely glancing at him. "Dr. Sazon, will you please assist me? I need to interface my tricorder with the _Enterprise_ main computer to run an analysis of these blood scans."

"And then?" Gul Mosel still waited impatiently for an answer.

"And then we're going to prep for surgery. We need to stop the internal bleeding." Crusher finally turned and looked at him, no longer irritated but weary and concerned. "It's going to take awhile. We'll contact you when we know more."

Mosel glanced to Dr. Sazon, who nodded his assent. "Very well," he said. "I'll be on the bridge." Turning on his heel, he stalked from sickbay with the same authoritative strut that had carried him in.

Dr. Crusher shook her head and sighed. "Cardassians," she muttered. She turned back to her patient and resumed her scans.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Timelines

"That's just it, Captain," Dr. Crusher said, speaking into the computer monitor. "She doesn't even have an internal universal translator, nor any indication that she ever did. It's very odd." Crusher spoke emphatically as Picard listened intently on the screen. Dr. Sazon had generously offered her the use of his private office in sickbay, and had arranged for a secure channel to the Enterprise for Dr. Crusher to give her report on the patient's condition post-surgery. The surgery had gone well, surprisingly, but as the operation had progressed, Dr. Crusher had noted a few…oddities.

"And there's more, Captain, that's even stranger," she continued. "Her blood work doesn't reveal any of the standard Federation vaccines. There are a few Earth-specific ones present: rubeola, poliomyelitis, and variola major. That's the smallpox!"

"Smallpox!" Picard exclaimed, his computer-image eyebrows rising. "That disease hasn't been present on Earth in hundreds of years!"

Crusher nodded. "Since it was eradicated in 1979. I had to look it up! I wouldn't have believed the scans if I hadn't found the vaccination scar on her arm, which is unusual in itself."

"Extremely unusual. Has your patient awoken post-surgery?"

"Not yet." Crusher hesitated for a moment. The Cardassians had promised a secure channel, but she was certain the conversation was monitored. It would be very un-Cardassian of them if they were not eavesdropping. To hell with it, she thought; it was nothing they did not already know, or would soon know. "There's one other thing, Jean-Luc," she said, leaning forward conspiratorially. "She awoke briefly, just before we sedated her for surgery. Her behavior was…disturbing."

"In what way?" Picard settled his chin in the nook between his thumb and index finger. Beverly recognized it as the gesture he used when most intrigued.

"After she opened her eyes, she glanced around, and Gul Mosel was standing next to her. She screamed when she saw him, as if she was absolutely terrified, like she had never seen a Cardassian before."

"Many humans haven't been exposed to them, especially with the war."

She shook her head. "It was more than that. Any human her age would have gone through school and studied the Federation-Cardassian war. I had to sedate her to stop the screaming."

"This is all under very poor circumstances, doctor. As soon as you know anything definitive, contact me immediately. Picard out."

"Yes, sir." Crusher switched off the monitor.

Again the murmuring of voices woke her. She opened her eyes easily this time and glanced around the room. The lights were no longer so bright above her. She was covered with a simple sheet, though she was warm beneath it. Sweat formed under her armpits and between her thighs. She tried to sit up but a sharp pain in her midsection quickly ended that attempt. Breathe, she told herself, just breathe. In for six counts. She counted silently, 1…2…3…4, and so forth. The heavy beating in her heart calmed. And hold your breath here, she intoned. And breathe out for 1…2…3… Her breath came normally now, panic somewhat subsided. The slight shuffling of feet drew her attention, and she twisted her head to the left. That movement, at least, caused her little discomfort. A tall, slim woman wearing a blue doctor's coat came out of a near-by office.

"Ah, you're awake," the woman said. She came over to the bed, clicking away on a data pad. "My name's Dr. Beverly Crusher. How are you feeling?"

The comforting voice amidst the foreign surroundings was a godsend and she sighed deeply. She tried to lift her head again and failed with a stifled groan.

"Just rest," Dr. Crusher ordered, gently putting her hand on the woman's shoulder. "You've been through quite an ordeal. It isn't everyday you get tossed into space."

The woman looked at her, head beginning to spin again. Her eyes flickered around the room, what bits of it she could see, and found it dim and unappealing.

"Can you tell me your name?" Dr. Crusher was trying to exert a calm demeanor, but the woman's eyes still flickered and her pulse was erratic.

The woman's head lolled around, her gaze coming to rest again on Dr. Crusher. She swallowed heavily. "Deidre," she rasped finally, "my name is Deidre O'Malley." No amount of breathing could calm her this time. Her intuition, her gut, told her that this was not a normal situation.

Dr. Crusher nodded encouragingly. "And where are you from, Deidre?"

She swallowed again and closed her eyes briefly. "Belfast. Ireland. Where am I?" Her heart beat wildly despite all her attempts to calm it.

"You're aboard the Cardassian warship _Saharon_." Crusher watched her face carefully for any sign of recognition, but the woman's expression only reflected bemusement and, somewhere beneath that, fear.

"I don't understand," Deidre said slowly. Her throat ached and her body was not faring much better.

"How old are you, Deidre?" Dr. Crusher decided to maintain the protocol for trauma victims: start small, ask simple questions; comfort and encourage. The scans had not revealed any significant brain damage, but Crusher decided to be thorough.

"Twenty-nine." She rolled her eyes back toward the ceiling. "I think I'm going to pass out." Sighing deeply, her head flopped to the side, her eyes closed, and she fainted.

"Well, that went well," Crusher mumbled, scanning the woman with her tricorder but finding no other explanation for her momentary lapse in consciousness than general malaise. She closed the tricorder with a resounding click. The door to sickbay opened behind her.

"And how is our patient today," Gul Mosel said, sliding up behind her.

Crusher doubted he cared earnestly about the woman's well-being; he had already asked Crusher at what point he could 'question the patient further' about her sudden appearance. Crusher had given him a candid 'not yet' and that was only by a long shot.

"She awoke briefly," Crusher replied, and Mosel seemed pleased. "But she didn't say much." His brief smile disappeared. "She's still sleeping off the sedative. I need to return to the _Enterprise_ to consult my files." Crusher turned quickly and went into Dr. Sazon's office. She had kept the conversation purposefully vague, both with the woman and with Mosel, and did not want the Gul to guess her intent. After her past experiences with the Cardassians, she did not trust this man in the slightest.

Crusher had her suspicions about this woman, which she had not voiced to Picard for obvious reasons. Before these suspiscions were confirmed, she did not want to warrant any undue panic or intrigue. It could simply be a series of unusual coincidences: the lack of universal translator, the vaccines, the patient's odd clothing the Cardassians had relinquished to her in the bag, the confusion and the scream; Crusher had a theory, but she needed to run a sample of the woman's blood through the _Enterprise's_ computer before she could be sure.

Collecting her data pad and medical kit, she exited the office, prepared to face Mosel, who waited impatiently outside. His mouth opened to speak, but she intercepted him.

"I'll return shortly," she said. "If her condition alters, contact me immediately." Brushing past him, she left the medical bay quickly. Gul Mosel watched her go with astonishment. He had heard humans could be brusque and difficult to deal with, but he had chalked it up to grossly prejudiced opinions. It seemed like those opinions were right after all.

He brushed off the latest encounter with the redoubtable Dr. Crusher. He had read and memorized the intelligence files on all the senior staff members of the _Enterprise_ before his ship had left Cardassian space and considered himself prepared to encounter their crew. He had discovered, with some satisfaction, that yet again Cardassian Intelligence had done its job efficiently: Dr. Crusher fit her profile like a glove.

This was his first official command of the _Saharon_ outside of Cardassian space, and it was a mission of significance. As a member of the Detapa Council, his father had helped in securing of his command. No, Mosel thought, he wouldn't dwell on his father. They shared the love that all Cardassian families shared, but Mosel had _earned_ this commission in his almost fifteen years serving the Cardassian military. His father's good word helped, but the commission was all his own. He felt himself fully prepared to be the envoy of Cardassian authority.

And then there was the woman. He approached the bed. She lay still, breath coming softly in the deep rise and falls of her chest. He would not allow her to impede, disrupt or endanger his command in any way. Mosel needed to succeed. The ambassador had been delivered to the _Enterprise_ with all the usual pomp and ceremony; Mosel had just returned from meeting Captain Picard and the irritating Commander Riker when he dropped in at sickbay to monitor her progress. Now that Dr. Crusher was gone, he could examine the patient without her casting a protective glare over his shoulder.

Mosel had never had the opportunity to study a human female before: Cardassian women, certainly, a Bajoran or two, and even an Andorian female, but this human was entirely free of distinctive markings or unusual appendages. Her cheekbones were higher than most, her hair muted blond (a trait he had grown to admire on a Bajoran female he was once acquainted with). From observing Dr. Crusher, he knew a human's skin was not predisposed to this sort of pallor, but her recent trauma could be to blame. Her eyes were gray, almost blue, he remembered.

When he spoke with Captain Picard privately aboard the _Enterprise_, finally face to face, the captain had again assured him that the woman's appearance was a mystery to all parties involved, and that he would devote whatever resources necessary to resolving the predicament. For all the captain's diplomatic overtures, Mosel did not rely on Picard to adequately amend the situation. Humans did not have the same eye for detail and Mosel had already assigned his first officer, with Dr. Sazon, to investigate the woman's appearance (through mostly legitimate channels). Nevertheless, the _Enterprise_ had the resources of the Federation at its disposal, not to mention they shared a common species. But Mosel trusted his crew: they were competent and hand-picked, the pride of Cardassia. They would solve this mystery, and Mosel would deal with Picard, the _Enterprise_ and the Federation when he had the upper-hand.

With those thoughts tucked securely in the back of his methodical brain, he laid his hand on the woman's shoulder. Her skin was hot beneath his touch. It was disappointing that she was ill; Mosel imagined that she could be quite pretty, once her skin resumed its normal hue and the circles under her eyes dissipated. Dr. Crusher and her dermal regenerator had done an exceptional job.

Mosel was not prepared for the woman to groan; nor was he prepared for her eyes to flutter open and gaze hazily at him. He lost himself momentarily in her eyes (gray, they were definitely gray), but was jerked back to the present by her scream—again.

"Oh, for the love of Hebitia," he snarled and yanked his hand away. The woman's eyes widened, and with a grunt of pain, she pushed herself away from the bed and backed into the wall. She curled her knees into her chest and looked out at him from impossibly frightened eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, his hand still poised in midair with surprise. "I won't touch you again." If humans had a taboo against men touching women, he was not aware of it, but what else could cause such panic? She clutched her legs, reeling away from him, eyes darting around the room. At least the screaming had ceased.

"What are you?" she asked. Mosel had to admit that the question was one of the last things he expected her to say, next to 'I'm a Ferengi mammoth'.

"I am Gul Ellil Mosel," he said slowly, approaching her again with equal reserve. "Captain of the Cardassian warship _Saharon_. You are in my medical facility."

She studied him warily for a moment, as if she had not comprehended. "What's wrong with me," she said finally.

"You don't remember?" Mosel was treading cautiously. This could all be a ruse, but her body language, her perpetual fear; he knew from experience that this was not something easily faked. The terror in her eyes convinced him when all else warned him to be wary.

She shook her head. This was the by far the strangest conversation of her life. Stranger still was the man who stood before her. His skin was a peculiar gray and his eyes were deep-set amidst a series of ridges. There was even a spoon-shaped indent on his forehead. The ridges running up his neck looked almost scale-like. Deidre felt she had good reason to be afraid, but here he was, apologizing to her. It was all most unusual. She pulled the blanket up tighter under her arms. She realized vaguely some time ago that she was naked, but it seemed more pertinent now. The man was still gazing at her, unblinking. Like a lizard, or a snake about to strike, she thought erratically. Still, it was not an altogether unappreciative gaze. She pulled the blanket up higher.

They came to a silent impasse, Mosel standing before her, uncertain if to continue, and Deidre clutching the blanket to her chest. This is how Dr. Sazon found them when he entered sickbay. Mosel greeted him coldly.

"Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! There are more of you," she gasped, and both men turned to her. "What the hell is going on?"

"I wasn't aware the patient had regained consciousness," Sazon said, approaching her eagerly with a tricorder before Mosel could warn him away.

"Where's the woman who was here earlier?" Deidre demanded. She watched Sazon approach with mounting fear. "What are you doing?" The strange instrument he held was beeping and flashing, and her instincts told her to get away, no matter the pain even sitting up caused. She leapt from the table as he came nearer, gasping as her feet hit the floor. She held the blanket up before her as a shield. "Get away from me!" The men were between her and the door and she knew she did not have a chance in hell getting past them. She swore under her breath.

Mosel was alarmed at how quickly the situation had degenerated. The woman may have let him sit next to the bed and discuss the situation rationally, if he had kept his voice low and his gestures minimal, but then Dr. Sazon had entered. But Mosel had at least been right on one count: this sort of terror was not a front. He knew she was fleeing from both him and Dr. Sazon, and he did not have the words to calm her. She crouched in the corner, Dr. Sazon still attempting to approach her with his tricorder.

"Doctor!" Mosel stepped between the Sazon and the woman. He took a breath to calm himself. "Although I appreciate your enthusiasm and your dedication to duty, you are alarming your patient." There, he thought, that sounded calm. "I suggest you retire to your office and review Dr. Crusher's notes before she returns." Sazon looked as if he was going to protest, but Mosel had said it with a tone that brooked no refusal. The doctor nodded his head slightly and removed himself from sickbay. The door to his office closed with a decisive click behind him.

"There, alone at last," Mosel sighed, surveying the woman as she crouched in a corner. "Only Bajorans can manage to look so furtive," he said. "Humans are a much prouder race. You come out now." She stared at him blankly and he sighed again. He had hoped to compliment her, but it had obviously backfired. Instead, he pulled up a stool—far enough away from her and her bed, but near enough to converse without raising his voice. He felt it was wise to keep their conversations private—the crew may have been handpicked, but they were still Cardassian. The thought filled him fleetingly with pride. "I apologize if Dr. Sazon upset you. He can be rather passionate about his work." She continued to stare. Her hands still clutched the blanket, but he noticed that she no longer white-knuckled it.

Deidre was confused. Scared and confused. Fear had seized her throat sometime during the encounter—fear and the spasms of pain shooting from her feet upward. Reluctantly, she sank to her heels, sliding her back along the wall. "I don't know what you want from me," she said finally. Beads of cold sweat trickled down her forehead.

"Nothing," Mosel replied, surprised. "Just your name," he added.

She nodded and tried to swallow. Her mouth was so dry. "Deidre O'Malley. I already told Dr. Crusher."

"She didn't mention it," Mosel said, irritated. Typical, he thought. Already the Federation was trying to cover up its blunder, whatever it may be.

"I don't know where I am," she said slowly, trying to dampen the fear in her voice. Mosel caught it anyway and wondered from whence it came.

"The Cardassian warship_ Saharon_. I am the Gul of this vessel. My name is Ellil Mosel." He knew he spoke rationally, but why did she look as if he had started speaking Klingon?

Deidre shook her head. "I don't understand," she said again. She had lost count of how many times she tried to tell them that in the past hour, first Dr. Crusher and now Ellil Mosel (what a name, she thought, again randomly). "What are you?"

Again the question. Mosel looked at her carefully. If she was bluffing, she was damned good at it. "I am a Cardassian. As I've said, you're on a Cardassian warship."

"Shh!" She hissed at him and held up her hand, palm outward. "What is a Cardassian?" Frustration slowly began to overtake her fear.

"What?" He spluttered, and then cursed himself for doing so. "_I _am a Cardassian. I was born on Cardassia Prime in the Cardassian System." This seemed too far-fetched for even an elaborate ruse. He stood up resolutely and stalked over to her. "You have taken this too far." He reached down and grabbed her elbow, forcing her to stand. She gasped again in pain as he jerked her to her feet. "Tell me why you are here, and why the Federation has sent you to disrupt this conference."

Deidre glared wildly at him. She gripped the blanket with the hand whose arm was held, and pulled her other back to punch him square in the jaw, if need be. She did not know if this alien could feel pain, but she would try her damnedest to cause some. "I can't tell you what I don't know," she said through gritted teeth, staring him down.

"You will tell me," he insisted, dragging her over to the bed. He plunked her down and released her arm. "What does the Federation hope to gain by installing you on my ship as a spy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about! You're a fucking alien, aren't you? Is this what this is all about," she said, her voice increasing until it was almost a yell. She glanced madly around the sickbay. "You know, I've seen all those alien movies! You kidnap me, and then convince me I'm a spy so you can do mind-experiments on me?" She slapped him hard across the face. He staggered slightly backwards. "Weel, that's what I think of that! You feckin' amadán," she snarled, as if swearing would frighten him away. "Go and shite!"

Mosel reeled back and she raised her hand again, this time in a fist. A look of bemusement flashed across his face and he paused. "_What_ did you just say?" Had the translator suddenly had a glitch?

"I said 'fuck off'. You're not going to brainwash me and then do experiments on my head, not bloody likely!" She glared at him, fist still raised.

He assessed her carefully. The same fear was present in her eye, underlying her aggressive demeanor. A feeling of doubt crept into his rigid mind and he was suddenly and unexpectedly confused. Was there even a chance she was as ignorant as she claimed? He needed to sit down again and sort this out, his meticulous brain sorting through the details one by one, to fit them back into the puzzle, but time would not allow. Instead, he glanced quickly at her raised fist and then at her face, lingering there and sinking into her eyes. Calm down and trust me for just a moment, his gaze pleaded.

She breathed deeply for a moment and seemed to understand. She lowered her fist reluctantly to chest-level in a cease-fire. He leaned into the bed, resting his hands on the mattress at either side of her. She gulped almost imperceptibly, but he noticed anyway.

"Where are you from," he said, calmly this time, gazing into eyes that were mere centimeters away. (Were they actually blue? This thought disconcerted him for both its inconsistency and its persistence. Why did he insist on noticing?)

"I'm from Belfast, Ireland," she replied, equally as composed. "But if you kidnapped me, then you already know that." Her fist tightened again.

"I did not kidnap you." He continued to probe her stare, seeking the truth within those hazy, shifting depths. "You appeared in space outside my ship and I ordered you beamed aboard our sickbay. The woman with whom you spoke earlier, the doctor, Beverly Crusher, saved your life. Why are you here?"

Deidre swallowed, her mouth impossibly dry. "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know where 'here' is. And that's God's truth." She unclenched her fist and raised her hand again. He eyed it warily. "Jaysus," she said again. "You really are an alien. I'm having a hard time believing this." She lifted a finger and ran it hesitantly along the ridge above his left eye. Surprised, but glad she had not attempted to incapacitate him again, he allowed her to continue.

His skin felt cool beneath her hand, but she was warmer than usual, sweat still clinging to her. She could not think of a texture to compare it to, at least not to any animal she had ever petted—not that she was petting him. Mosel noted in the back of his mind that it was obviously not forbidden for humans to touch members of the opposite sex, as he had assumed earlier. She ran her finger along the swoop beneath his eye, her gaze following it down to the ridges running along his jaw. Her breath caught in her throat as her finger strayed to his grayish lips. She licked her own lips absently and met his gaze again. "Your lips feel the same!" His hot breath pressed against her finger in shallow bursts. She gasped and withdrew her hand.

The door to sickbay slid suddenly open and Dr. Crusher walked brusquely in, followed closely by Captain Picard. Neither looked pleased, and they marched directly toward the pair. Mosel stepped quickly away and Deidre clutched the blanket tighter to her chest. A sinking feeling in her gut told her she was about to get a few answers, and that she was in way over her head. The thoughts did not necessarily come in that order.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Timelines

Picard insisted on accompanying Dr. Crusher to the _Saharon_ after she had presented her findings to him. It had not taken her as long as she anticipated to test her theory: in a few communications sent to the University of Ireland's Genealogical and Historical Studies departments, she had proved her hypothesis beyond reasonable doubt. She downloaded the proof into her data pad and held it out proudly to the Captain.

"She was born in 1980? Come now, are you serious?" Picard looked up from the data pad skeptically.

"Completely serious, Jean-Luc." Beverly had taken to using his Christian name when the subject required confidentiality, or the matter was gravely serious. Picard was savvy enough to note that both seemed to be the case this time. "This woman, I almost can't believe it. She appears out of nowhere from the twentieth century!" Crusher's eyes gleamed as they strode down the corridor toward the transporter room. "It's theoretically impossible, but all the facts point to one solution: she is from the past, down to her clothing, her vaccination record, her blood work. The University of Ireland found her birth certificate on file from that era."

"There aren't many records from that time. Most were destroyed during the war," Picard said, reviewing the data pad in partially veiled astonishment. Beverly was almost giddy with excitement, and Picard allowed himself a small thrill of excitement to pass down his spine.

"I know, it's extraordinary they found anything at all. She told me she was born in Belfast, so I sent her blood samples to the University and gave them an initial search parameter. They didn't find much, but records show she was born April 21, 1980, to Robert and Moira O'Malley. Her brothers, twins, were born two years earlier. The Genealogical Centre didn't have more than birth certificates and passports—old travel documents—on file for the family. However, they were able to send a picture…go to the last page of the report."

Picard glanced up in amazement before dutifully flipping to the last page. "This _is_ extraordinary," he murmured. Smiling at him from the screen was a slim, blond woman crouching with a pair of enormous Irish Wolfhounds—a breed that had gone extinct not long after the picture must have been taken—and an older man and woman ("her parents," Crusher said), and two men in their early twenties ("her brothers, Domhnall and Brían"). Picard shook his head. "And her blood work confirms this?"

"They had it all on-file at the Genealogical Centre, just another remnant of the forgotten past. Thankfully they did a complete overhaul of their system five years ago, or this may have been buried in a dusty circulation file for another century and we would never have found it."

"It was meant to be," Picard chuckled, reluctant to hand the data pad back to her.

"Or something like that," she said, hurrying along the corridor. "I need to return to the ship immediately."

A look of comprehension dawned on Picard's face and a worried shadow passed over him. "We've left a woman from the twentieth century alone onboard a ship of aliens, which in her world should not exist for another fifty years. Yes, that is problematic," he said. Crusher nodded: he had grasped the situation perfectly. "I believe I'll accompany you," he continued. "This has turned a difficult situation into a ticking time-bomb."

"'A ticking time-bomb'?" she asked, eyebrows raised.

"Just a little twentieth century humor, doctor," Picard chuckled again. "I suppose we better brush up on our ancient idioms if we're to have a 300 year old visitor."

"I can only imagine," she said.

They arrived at the transporter room, and without further adieu, they were transported to the _Saharon_ by a mildly interested O'Brien. They were met at the platform by the same Glinn who had escorted Dr. Crusher during her first tour. The Glinn was surprised to see the Captain, but led them directly to sickbay, explaining that Gul Mosel would like to discuss matters with Captain Picard, and that they would find the Gul there. Crusher exchanged a concerned glance with Picard, and they hastened their pace down the corridor.

As they feared, Gul Mosel was not alone. Upon their arrival, they saw that he hovered over the woman, who was now alert and sitting up, albeit uncomfortably. The woman's hand drew quickly away from his face at their appearance and she looked abashed. She held the blanket to her chest; her shoulders and the side of her ribcage were bare, the blanket sliding away from her hip. Curls of hair fell disheveled on her shoulders.

"Aliens exist!" she exclaimed to Picard and Crusher, who had paused halfway between the door and her bed. She glanced at Mosel. "It's incredible." With a sudden startled and exhausted sigh, she slumped against the wall. Crusher rushed forward.

"You need to lie down," she urged, settling Deidre limply back under her blanket. "I'll be with you gentlemen in a minute," she said, turning to Picard and Mosel. They joined Dr. Sazon, who had crept from his office to observe the commotion, rather reluctantly.

"How are you feeling," Crusher asked quietly, after tucking the blanket around her and scanning her with the tricorder.

"Better, thanks." Deidre nodded toward Mosel, who was in a small conference with Picard and Sazon. "He's quite something."

Crusher spared the Cardassian a glance. "Yes, I suppose," she said. "Now, you must rest."

"I think that pain medicine you just gave me did the trick," Deidre said, her brain suddenly gone loopy.

"Get well," Crusher urged. "We'll have you back on your feet in a day or two."

"The wonders of modern medicine," Deidre mumbled, as she drifted to sleep.

"Indeed," Crusher murmured. She clicked her tricorder gently shut and left the bed. She joined the trio and ushered them into Sazon's office.

"Captain Picard," Gul Mosel was saying, "I don't know what sort of deception the Federation is trying to employ, but claiming she's from the past is an extraordinary and blatantly subversive attempt at waylaying this conference. It is preposterous."

"I am surprised that the Cardassian Union would think the Federation would want to sabotage this alliance," Picard said coolly. "It's in the Federation's best interest that these treaty amendments are resolved."

"Gentlemen," Crusher intervened. Mosel glanced coldly at her while Picard seemed glad of the reprieve. "I suggest we continue this conversation at another time. Sickbay is hardly the appropriate venue. My patient needs her rest. Gul Mosel, I suggest you read over our communiqué more thoroughly. You'll find its contents intriguing." Crusher relinquished her data pad with its family history of Deidre O'Malley to Mosel. He took it with a sullen glance.

"Please inform me when the patient is conscious, Dr. Crusher," Picard said formally. "I'll wish to interview her then." Nodding curtly to the Gul, Picard made his exit, whispering an 'I owe you' to Crusher as he passed. She nodded slightly.

"The patient won't be awake anytime soon, Gul Mosel," she said pointedly. With an irritated sigh, Mosel turned on his heel and left sickbay, with only a slight glance over his shoulder at the sleeping woman. "Well, that takes care of that," Crusher muttered, watching him stalk from the medical lab. "Dr. Sazon," she continued in a louder, wearied tone, turning to the Cardassian, "you had a few questions on human physiology? I think now is as good a time as any."


	5. Chapter 5

Timelines: Chapter Five

Gul Mosel strode down the corridor toward his quarters, taking his frustration out on the data pad. He punched the keys mercilessly, converting the report into Kardassi (at least the humans could have had the courtesy to translate it before its delivery, he grumbled). As he skimmed the file, his gait slowed. Could it be possible? Finally he came to a complete stop. It was unmistakable. Easily forged, but ingenious nevertheless. The picture was a perfect likeness of the woman in sickbay. It was a brilliant ruse; he had to give the Federation its due credit.

He turned the situation over logically in his mind. During their conversation in sickbay, Picard had been playing the diplomat, that much was evident. But if he had read the situation correctly (and he was rarely wrong, Mosel thought smugly, which was why he was, at the young age of 34, given this assignment in the first place), the woman, Deidre, was not playing the same game as Picard. Her palpable terror, her strange reaction to his facial ridges, was bizarre. And could not possibly have been rehearsed. The captain, however, had seemed almost as anxious to interview the young woman as he was. Whatever their scheme, the characters were playing their roles exceptionally. The only problem, Mosel thought, is that it was all too perfect. Not a one had fumbled; no dropped lines, no half-hidden truths had emerged. Gul Mosel had interrogated many species before, and under duress, all had revealed the tell-tale fissures in their narratives. All had cracked under the pressure. Not so with these humans. Perhaps he had simply underestimated the crew of the _Enterprise_ and their young human operative. Or (and here Mosel allowed himself a momentary shiver of fear), they were telling the truth. Time-travel. It was impossible. He gazed at the image on the pad: the impossibly blue sky, the smiling woman surrounded by her family and the two gargantuan beasts wrestling in the green grass. The date on the certificate of her birth.

What frightened him the most is that, for a moment, as he read the data pad, he almost wanted to believe.

The door opened suddenly behind him and two Gils emerged, carrying a heavily loaded crate. Their appearance jolted Mosel out of his musings, and the men looked up in surprise as they nearly collided with him.

"Gul Mosel," they chorused respectfully. They had obviously not been expecting their captain to be loitering in the hallway outside of the stock room. Mosel nodded curtly and allowed them to pass. They walked quickly away, hauling the crate between them. One gave Mosel a querying look as they passed, but at a stern glance from the Gul, the young man averted his eyes and continued.

Mosel sighed and carried on down the corridor, his thoughts interrupted. He had found that this ship was a difficult command. Not because of his diplomatic cargo, or even because of the importance Central Command placed on these talks. Mosel found the difficulties far more personal. He had held the rank of Gul less than two years: his crew knew it, and he was aware of his tenuous hold over them. They had not worked together long enough to garner the sort of respect that was due a man of his status. This rankled him, but he was confident that his decisions concerning this human woman would ensure his crew's deference in the future.

He paused outside of his quarters. It was drawing on the dinner hour and he was famished. Upon entering his domestic rooms, he found it customarily dark. Calling for lights (which were dim even by Cardassian standards), he glanced around the rooms. His sleeping clothes lay crumpled in a heap outside of his bedroom door; the mug that held his fish juice had turned over as he hurried out of the room that morning, and it puddled beside his breakfast dishes. He sighed again with the errant thought that if he were already married, as his parents had been encouraging, this mess would not be an issue. Straightening up with little enthusiasm, he mused over the disadvantages of living alone on a warship when he was jolted from his thoughts (yet again) by his communications alert.

His monitor flashed insistently as he approached. Sweeping his breakfast dishes out of sight of the view screen, he took a seat and waited for the live feed to appear. As his father's face filled the screen, he suppressed a groan.

"Father, how are you?" he asked of the pixilated image, utterly congenial.

"Well, son, thank you." His father nodded cordially. Even when shown only in portraiture, his screen-image gave the feeling of distinction. Mosel had never known his father to be discomposed.

"And how is mother?" Mosel leaned back in his chair, prepared for the routine question and answer session.

"She sends her regards." Father paused. "I was informed you have an unusual human visitor aboard your ship." His expression had not changed, but Mosel recognized from experience that his eyes had hardened into a particular glint. This was not going to be one of the usual familial conversations. He sighed inwardly and braced himself.

Straightening in the chair, he said, "Yes sir, a human woman, though I suppose you already know that. Her arrival was quite inexplicable."

"Do not take that tone with me," Father reprimanded. "This is an enormous leverage against the Federation. Do not disappoint me. I trust you have the situation well in hand?"

"Yes sir." Mosel gritted his teeth before continuing. "Are there any explicit instructions from the Council?" He opted to leave the new information—that Captain Picard claimed this visitor to be a time-traveler—out of the conversation.

Father almost smiled, but his face hardened again. "We feel you are supervising the situation sufficiently for now." He paused again, and let a small wave of pride turn up the corners of his mouth. "The other council members are impressed with your competence."

"And they shall continue to be. Thank you for your commendation, father." Mosel dipped his head in respect.

"I expect the same degree of dedication from you in the future," he replied. "Have a pleasant evening." He nodded a courteous farewell and the screen darkened.

Mosel collapsed against his chair. Running a hand through his hair, he let his eyes close and head fall back. What a day. Almost wishing he had let the human sit in space a few moments longer and then feeling unaccustomedly guilty, he sat up and shuffled over to the replicator.

"Larish pie," he grumbled. The dish appeared and he cursed when he burned his hand on the plate. "Gul Mosel to Gil Ojon," he snapped aloud, "put a work order in to adjust the temperature settings on my personal replicator."

"Yes, sir," came the disembodied, somewhat startled voice. "I'll have someone up right away."

Mosel carried the plate carefully, setting it next to the breakfast dishes. If the Bajorans had one estimable quality, he thought, as he ate his first bite, it was certainly their native fare. Having never been to Bajor, he enjoyed their food nevertheless. Obviously, other Cardassians felt the same, as Bajoran food was present in nearly all the replicators he had encountered outside of Cardassia Prime.

Wishing suddenly for an end to this trying day, and feeling rather exhausted, he stood, abandoning his dinner dishes on the desk. Forgetting about the order to fix the replicator, he stripped on his way to the bedroom. He left his uniform in a heap on the floor and flung himself face-down on the bed. Moments later, he slipped quietly into a troubled, dreamless sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: For those who have been reading along as I've been posting, I want to apologize briefly: I didn't realize there was at least one incongruous scene change in Chapter Three (and there may be more that I haven't found). I meant to have these scenes divided with symbols, but I didn't realize that FanFiction was not formatting them correctly. I am trying to rectify this problem. Apologies again.

Timelines: Chapter Six

"Extract her from the Cardassian ship as soon as possible."

Captain Picard read the communiqué from Starfleet three times before he finally turned his monitor off in aversion. His orders were to remove Deidre O'Malley from Gul Mosel's custody with all expediency. Unfortunately, Starfleet did not seem to understand the complexities of the situation, and certainly not the delicacy with which he must approach the Cardassians concerning her rights as a Federation citizen. (If such rights even existed. Starfleet had failed to inform him on the subtext of human rights concerning time-travelers.) He was hardly through his first cup of Earl Grey this morning and already his headache had increased exponentially.

A brief stop-over in sickbay for the headache, he decided, and then a visit to Ms. O'Malley on the _Saharon_. Dr. Crusher had informed him half an hour earlier that the woman was awake and coherent. It was time to solve this situation. He wished to avoid further aggravating relations with Cardassia. And he desperately desired peace of mind.

Later, onboard the _Saharon_, his headache much abated, he entered the sickbay to discover Gul Mosel already seated beside the young patient. Instantly, his headache returned and he ground his teeth mercilessly. Dr. Crusher noticed his entrance and pulled him aside.

"You look as if you haven't slept," he said, concerned.

"So do you." She smiled thinly. They both appeared a little frazzled around the edges. Beverly had rolled her coat sleeves up to her elbows and her hair was frizzy from the increased humidity on the Cardassian ship.

"How is she," Picard asked quietly. He glanced over at the woman, who was smiling at something Gul Mosel had said.

"She's been awake since early morning. He's been here twice," she said, nodding toward Mosel. "I shooed him out the first time, but he brought her something to read this time. As an excuse to return, most likely. Devious bastard."

"Starfleet has ordered that I remove her from this ship as soon as possible. Is her physical condition going to impede that in any way?"

Beverly shook her head. "I recommend another day of bed rest," she said. "I'll try to keep Gul Mosel and Dr. Sazon from speaking with her." She glanced ruefully at Mosel, whose back was turned. "You know, I hate to say this about a colleague, no matter his race, but Dr. Sazon is worse than Gul Mosel. I believe he only treated her in order to study human physiology. I won't have her become a lab rat for him." She scowled and Jean-Luc patted her arm.

"We'll resolve this soon enough. And now, I think it's time I interrupted Gul Mosel's interrogation."

Picard approached the bed as Crusher retreated into Sazon's office. Deidre lifted her eyes to him as he neared.

"Hello," she said quietly. Her manner had calmed since the day before. She rested tranquilly in the bed, clothed in a loose-fitting Cardassian shift. In her hands lay a Cardassian data pad.

"Ah, Captain," Mosel said, turning toward him. "Good morning. How good of you to visit. I assume you wish to speak with your patient."

"That would be most favorable, Gul Mosel," Picard replied, struggling to be amiable.

"Then I shall depart." He returned to Deidre. "Enjoy the story. I've always found Glinn Tepor's struggles against the injustices of Gul Lanox, and his innovative insights into the well-being of the state to be refreshing and enlightening."

"Thank you, Ellil. I'm sure I'll enjoy it." She smiled kindly.

"Yes, good day." Mosel nodded his head and departed. "Oh, and Captain," he said, as he neared the door. "Please, do come by my office when you are finished. Let's not allow this situation to interrupt our dialogue." His tone was coldly congenial, and he passed out of the room without waiting for a reply. Picard eyed him frostily, but adjusted his tone when he turned toward Deidre.

"Well, your color certainly has improved since yesterday," he said with attempted joviality.

Her laughter was kinder even than her smile. "I imagine I look a sketch." She held up the data pad. "I mentioned that I was a bit bored. It was quite kind of him to bring me this." She set it aside and offered her hand. "I'm sorry we didn't get a proper introduction yesterday. It was all a bit shocking."

Picard took her hand and gave it a gentle shake. He enjoyed hearing her lilting voice; it was so strange and thrilling to be hearing an historical Irish accent. He found himself secretly hoping that she would be willing to speak with him further regarding twentieth century customs. Her empirical insights into the past would be fascinating. However, first things first.

"Yes, first encounters often are," he said, releasing her hand. "I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard, of the Federation starship Enterprise. And I have been told you are Deidre O'Malley."

"In the flesh," she said. "I guess you'll want to be asking me some questions."

"May I sit down?" he asked. She nodded and he assumed Mosel's seat. "Yes, I have quite a few questions. And I hope you'll have the answers to them."

"Not bloody likely," she laughed. "I was on my roof, of my flat, and I don't know, the rest is a blur. And then I was here, being chased down by a man with ridged eyes and gray skin, who was trying to brainwash me." She shrugged her shoulders with a slight grimace. "Like I already told Ellil, Gul Mosel, I don't know. I mean, I didn't even know we'd met aliens yet. I guess Roswell isn't a joke. You'd think these things would make the news. And where did we get enough money to launch a space program? Trust me, all I know is that I really don't know much of anything." She shrugged again. Picard breathed in slowly. So, neither Beverly nor Gul Mosel had informed her of the more pressing predicament. Deidre gave him a peculiar look. "Are you all right, captain, sir?"

"Quite." He paused momentarily. "Deidre, there's something we need to discuss."

"Words I'm never fond of hearing," she said.

Picard shook his head. "It's very important that you listen to me closely. I don't want to alarm you, especially after you've already been through such an ordeal. But you need to know something about the time you are in."

Deidre glanced around. "Well, if I the 'time' I'm in is any different than the spacecraft I'm in…" When Picard did not chuckle, she reigned herself in. "Go on, I'm listening."

"What year is it?" he asked. The question was unexpected and Deidre glanced at him with lifted brows.

"It's 2009. November something, eighteenth?"

"No." He looked sympathetically at her for a moment. "It's not 2009. The year is 2368." He paused for it to take effect.

She stared at him for just enough time to make him wonder if she had understood. Just as he was about to say something, she laughed. "I am in me wick," she chuckled. (Whatever that meant, Picard thought.) "Naw, you're taking me for a run around. I've accepted that I'm on a spaceship, but come on, 2368? Don't burst my bubble, I thought I was pretty cool for being brought into a secret government lab. If that's the best you can do." She said it mockingly, but in a kindly way. Picard sighed.

This was not going to be easy.

"Deidre," he said, leaning closer and taking her hand in his. She looked him in the eye, her own still cheerful. "I'm telling you the truth. It has been over 300 years since you were born."

Her cheerfulness dimmed for a moment, but she gave a half-hearted titter. "No, seriously," she said. "I need to call my brothers and tell them where I am. They'll be worried sick. I mean, I'm on the mend, I'll be ready to go home in no time." She squeezed his hand, silently asking him to understand, to go find her a cell phone, anything. But he only watched her closely, concerned. She let out a shaky sigh. "Please." Picard shook his head and she let out a gasp. It lengthened into a sob and she gripped his hand tighter. "Please, captain?" But she knew his answer and closed her eyes so she would not have to look at him. She shuddered and drew in several shaky breaths. "Did my brothers come with me?" she asked finally, slowly opening her eyes.

"No, my dear, you were alone," he said, as compassionately as he could muster. Her face paled even further and she brought her spare hand up to her mouth.

"I need a moment, please." Picard released her and she wiped at her eyes as a reflex. After a moment, she seemed to compose herself, and sat up straighter in the bed. Her skin, however, retained the lackluster pallor and her expressions were dim. She looked at him for a long while with reddened eyes. "You're going to figure out a way to send me back, aren't you? This has all been fun, and I'm incredibly grateful for Gul Mosel's care, but I want to go home. My brothers will be missing me terribly. I can't be stuck in the future without them." She chuckled bleakly.

"At this point, if you have nothing to tell us about your arrival, I'm afraid there is very little chance of returning you to your time. We haven't mastered time travel yet," he said slowly, trying to insert a little of her humor to soften the blow, but failing miserably. "I am sorry." He opted not to tell her that Starfleet requested he escort her back to Earth on the _Enterprise_ as soon as the conference was over. They planned to run her through the gamut of interviews with the leading scientists in the field. Apparently, Starfleet's Time Travel program was about to get a significant boost.

Deidre dropped her hands limply into her lap. "There must be something you can do."

"We won't give up trying," he said, again attempting to encourage her. "Anything you can tell us, anything at all, would be enormously helpful."

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I just don't know." She fiddled with the data pad in her lap. "What am I supposed to do? I don't have a job, and I imagine they've let my apartment go by now. Where am I going?" Her voice became listless.

"You'll stay on the _Enterprise_ after Dr. Crusher releases you from her care," he said, in his strong, get-things-accomplished tone. "I read in your file sent over from the Geneological Centre that you were quite an accomplished vocalist."

"Well, I'm no Sinéad," she chuckled. "I graduated from the Dublin Conservatory of Music. My brothers and I play in a band, we have a couple albums out. We weren't that popular, I'm surprised anyone remembers us."

"We still respect the arts on Earth. I'm sure you can take up teaching singing classes if you are so inclined." Picard was trying to be helpful, but judging by her downcast expression, his tactics were not effective.

"I teach yoga too, at a studio downtown. I guess that's still popular." She harrumphed. "I know you're trying to be helpful, captain. I appreciate it. But what I really need right now is a fag." He must have appeared bemused, as she put her fingers in a 'V' up to her lips in pantomime. "A cigarette, you know? I'll just…step outside to smoke it."

"Ah." He nodded and looked momentarily disconcerted. "Humans no longer smoke to occupy themselves," he said. "It's hazardous to our health."

"I guess I can't bum one from you, then," she sighed.

"I've never been asked for a cigarette outside of the holodeck." He laughed. "It's a rather refreshing experience!"

"Holodeck?" she asked.

"Holodecks are the manipulations of photons and force fields to create holographic projections, which we can interact with in order to simulate training sessions, or for entertainment purposes."

"Interesting," she said warily.

"I prefer the Dixon Hill novel programs," he said, momentarily at a loss as how to continue.

She nodded and looked down at the data pad, passing it through her fingers. "Captain, I'm sorry to be rude, but I'm quite tired. I think I would like to have a kip. A lie down." She glanced at him and he appeared sympathetic.

"Of course." He stood and patted her shoulder. "It'll all get better in time."

"'Yes sir, you betcha'."She gave him a MacGyverish grin, though half-heartedly. She wished him farewell, and reclined the bed. Bemused, Picard went to the office, looking over his shoulder briefly to see her turn over on her side, clutching the data pad to her chest like a beloved book. She faced the wall and her shoulders crumpled.

Picard found Dr. Crusher absorbed in a medical text she had pulled up on the monitor. "I fear this is bad all around," he said, startling her. She saved her place and closed the screen.

"She seems to be adjusting fairly well," she replied. "But I know what you mean."

"I want Counselor Troi to speak with her as soon as she's onboard the _Enterprise_."

"I'll contact Deanna directly," Crusher said. "With the exception of any unforeseen problems, Deidre should be ready to return to the ship tomorrow morning. I know I'll be glad to be back." She gave the office a perturbed glance.

"I'm sure. So, tomorrow then? I'll expect you in my Ready Room for a briefing at o'nine-hundred."

"Yes, sir. And I'll request Deanna be there as well," she offered.

"Very good." A brief silence fell between them, and they shared small smiles.

"See you tomorrow," he said, and turned on his heel. Exiting the office, he glanced at Deidre again and found her still turned to the wall, her shoulders rising and falling rhythmically in sleep. "Poor girl," he murmured, and departed.


	7. Chapter 7

Another A/N: For those keeping score, I made a slight error in earlier chapters when referring to an internal universal translator. It's actually only the Ferengi that use them inside the ear (like the one I was referred to), Starfleet have them built into the architecture or some darn thing, but seeing as that's a few chapters back, I'm going to keep it despite its semi-inaccuracy (even though the Ferengi method makes more sense overall). Apologies again. [I always had a difficult time understanding the complexities and incongruities of the UT anyway, but it's all for storytelling sake anyway.]

Timelines: Chapter Seven

She was dreaming. She knew she was, but she stumbled around the dream-forest all the same, caught in the cloudy fabric between waking and desire. Hazy light sifted through the trees, an orange sunrise glow. The tree trunks were inexplicably moving as she struggled to keep her path. She passed through the slender aspens, bare feet whispering along the earth. There was no need for a path, not really; she had been here before and knew where she would eventually end up. It seemed like the dream had always been there, waiting: she and it were becoming well-acquainted as it came to her, night after night.

The solemn song called to her before she saw the church, as it always did. The dirge carried over the grove, trees rustling their branches above her as they passed their secrets. She felt her way along the aspen trunks until she came to the monastery. It reminded her of Innisfallen when she had visited it on holiday with her family, but in her dream it was no longer a crumbled façade. The ruins of the abbey rose magnificently before her, light breaking through them in a kaleidoscope dawn, shimmering amethyst, orange and chartreuse. She stood before it, hands and palms outstretched, bathed in its glow. Iridescent.

The song came from inside. She went to the door and cracked it open, the oak swinging heavily on its hinges. Just beyond the door, spectral mourners underwent the funeral mass, ghostly figures kneeling and rising in fluid rows. The interior radiated, sunlight refracting off the glass windows and shooting sunbeams through the mourners as it splashed onto the floor. She leaned her head inside and the scent of lilac played at her nose. She pulled the doors farther apart and slipped in.

The abbey dissipated abruptly, the mourners fading into the weakening sun until they were merely a rumor. Deidre stood suddenly on her the roof of her apartment building. She glanced at her feet as dry leaves blew in from the closing door and circled around the concrete. Turning, she saw the specter of the door shut quietly behind her, and then she was alone.

Sirens sounded in the distance and the gray sky hovered, anxious. The calm of the forest dissolved around her. The roof was as she knew it, with dying potted plants scattered about, discarded pieces of furniture mildewing in the mist, and the empty planter the twins had built her one summer for an unsuccessful home garden. Sounds on the street drew her attention and she neared the edge of the roof, her dream-heart beginning to pound. As she approached the side, the blood rushed into her head. Lights flashed below. She desperately wanted to see over, to know, finally, what the commotion was, but the dream never let her. It seemed terribly important that she know. She held her breath and walked to edge.

Deidre awoke with sweating palms, heart fluttering wildly in her chest. Glancing around at the darkened medical bay, she lay her head back, discouraged, on the pillow. Cracking her neck with a grimace, she settled onto her side.

The dream visited her night after night; she could not recall when it had started, exactly, but it was uncannily consistent. Her skin itched with sweat. Wondering why they kept it so warm (and so dark, on that note), she kicked off the blanket, overheated. She glanced at the office door and found it closed. It had to be past midnight, but of course, she grumbled, there weren't any wall clocks. Sitting up, she grasped the cup of water left at her bedside and splashed it onto her face. With her palms, she rubbed the water over her skin and into her hair. She gripped the back of her neck and massaged her fingers roughly into the muscles there. Beads of water dripped from her nose and chin, soaking the front of her brown hospital shift. She breathed deeply.

She slid off the bed and, gathering the hemline across her thighs, she lifted it and dried her face with the hospital gown. The material was odd, almost linen, she thought as she swept it a second time across her face, but not as absorbent. The neckline was not fitted to human standards, she noted, pulling up the sleeve as it slipped too far down her shoulder. Probably made to accommodate those neck ridges of theirs. She glanced down at the bedside table (more of a rollaway cart, really), and her eyes landed on the data pad given her by Mosel. She had skimmed the first few segments, or chapters (if that is what the Cardassians—she still could not think the name without a little shiver of discomfort—called them), but the story had not held her interest. Still, she admitted, it was a thoughtful gesture.

Her mind returned, unexpectedly, to the dream. The image of the abbey flashed into the forefront, golden and glowing. "Do You want me to pray, is that why I've seen the church?" she asked aloud, glancing up, seeing only drab ceiling. Her voice reverberated, odd-sounding in the empty sickbay, or maybe it was only in her mind that it rang too loudly. Silence ensued. "Well, all right," she said after a moment, kneeling before the bed. "I haven't said my prayers in a while, anyway." She clasped her hands together and leaned her elbows on the bed, as all good Irish Catholic children had were taught from childhood. Lifting her two index fingers together, she crooked them and said, sing-songingly, "Here is the steeple and here is house," if that is even how it goes, she thought. Settling more comfortably on her knees, she chuckled into the dark room. "All right, enough monkey business.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed are thou amongst women." She said this quickly, the essence of routine seeping from the words. And then she paused. "Holy Mother, could you please ask your son for me, holy Jesus Christ, to please help me out of this bind I'm in. I'm going to try to find a way out myself, but if I can't, I would sure appreciate a little help. Thank you, Mary. Oh, and if you could find a way of letting Brían and Domhnall know that I'll be finding a way to join them soon, that would also be appreciated, so they don't worry overmuch." She fiddled her thumbs together for a moment, as if trying to remember something. Finally, in a graver tone, she said, "I know I haven't done 'good' all my life. My behavior certainly hasn't been above reproach. But I would really like not to be stuck here forever. Could you tell your son Jesus also, that I belong with my brothers. I'm missing them terribly, and if this is some sort of test, like Job, then please don't let anything bad happen to them while I'm away. They need me to look after them, keep their noses clean, that sort of thing. And please, let me return me to them, as quickly as possible. Thank you Mary, bless your name, and bless Jesus." Deidre crossed herself and crawled onto the bed. Hoping that did the trick, she settled in for the restless night.

Gul Mosel reviewed the sickbay surveillance footage the next morning with interest. He had taken to reviewing that particular section personally since the arrival of their guest. It was customarily the duty of his security officer, Glinn Tedre, whom he had detailed to Crusher and Picard on their visits. However, Mosel had considered it his personal responsibility and for the last two mornings had carefully monitored the nightly events in sickbay.

And as for the contents of the recordings? Mosel sat back in his chair and started the video again from the time she had awoken, apparently from an agitated sleep. Cardassians, Mosel included, normally ridiculed prayer (and all of its associated religious beliefs), and while he was aware that other species often held irrational views concerning the divine, he had not counted humans amongst them. Evidently, he was wrong. Mosel frowned and leaned forward in his chair. After the strange ritual with the water, she subjugated herself before the bed. She began to pray. If she was a Federation agent sent in covertly, then she played her role excellently.

But surely this praying scenario was not premeditated. The _Saharon_ was Cardassia's finest and newest model of warship: none of the earlier designs had surveillance recorders in the secondary bays: stock rooms, medical facilities, crew quarters. The _Saharon_ had all of the above, but the design was carefully guarded; it was impossible for this operative to know that her performance was recorded.

This was what caused Gul Mosel to sit forward in his chair and why he was so avidly watching the video image of her kneeling in prayer. Because she could not possibly be acting. If she had been Cardassian, he would have commended her on such a performance, but humans simply did not possess the cunning. His earlier conversations with her had not illuminated such skill. In fact, their previous dialogue had revealed nothing at all. Her face was entirely too animated when she spoke, betraying a not-unbecoming honesty that seemed typical of her race. But she had disclosed nothing of importance. He had reviewed the record of her conversation with Picard to find that their discourse had run along a similar vein.

Even more discouraging was his subsequent interview with Picard. The man had revealed nothing, a setback that Mosel had the displeasure of reporting to his father when the elder contacted him for a status update. Nor was it pleasant to report that he was, as of yet, unable to disprove the humans' claim that the woman had time-traveled into the future. It was not necessary to dwell on Father's response to this recent development, suffice to say Mosel looked forward to their next exchange with a lingering dread.

He tapped his fingers irresolutely on his desk. Glancing at his timepiece, he realized he had just enough time to intercept the woman before she departed the _Saharon_ with Dr. Crusher. Determined to resolve the truth behind her origins and intent, he decided that further dialogue was the only means currently available to him to solve this mystery.

He departed his office and hurried to the transporter platform, contacting his trusted Glinn, Tedre, and transferring temporary command of the _Saharon_ to him until his return. Upon encountering Dr. Crusher and Ms. O'Malley at the transporter platform, he only nodded at them amiably. "I have business with our ambassador," he said, as means of explanation. Crusher glanced at him suspiciously but nodded.

"What does this thing do?" Deidre asked, standing between them on the platform, unaware of their silent exchange. Mosel noticed she had been given a set of brown garments—Cardassian, and obviously from the _Saharon's _medical stores.

"Transporters dematerialize us into matter streams that are relayed to corresponding receptors, which reconstitute us on the _Enterprise_. In laymen's terms," Crusher said.

"Of course, 'in laymen's terms'." Deidre looked apprehensive. "Does it hurt?"

"Not in the slightest," Mosel said, before Crusher could respond. With sudden inspiration, he offered his hand. "Here, it only lasts a few seconds."

Deidre glanced at him and took his hand. It was unexpectedly cooler than hers and did not feel particularly different otherwise, for an alien. He smiled while Crusher frowned over Deidre's shoulder.

Mosel nodded at the Gil behind the transporter controls. "You may proceed," he said. He heard Deidre draw a quick intake of breath a moment before the transporter activated, and he tightened his hand around hers instinctively. She returned the pressure and they disappeared in a golden wave.


	8. Chapter 8

Timelines: Chapter Eight

"Earl Grey, hot." Picard took his tea cup and settled in at his desk. His briefing with Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi began promptly at o'nine-hundred, though Commander Riker was running considerably late. "So," he continued, straightening his uniform and taking a brief sip. "Is Ms. O'Malley settled in comfortably?"

"Deidre is staying in one of the guest quarters on deck ten," Beverly replied. "I walked her through the ship on a brief tour. Of course, Gul Mosel insisted on accompanying us." She did not sound particularly pleased.

"And how is her condition now; physically, I mean," he asked.

"She can resume normal activity," Crusher said. "For a human from the twentieth century, her physical condition is remarkably healthy. Her body mass index is standard for her height, and her immune system is functioning well. I was surprised. I can't imagine how our species thrived without the proper health care for so many centuries!" Beverly shook her head in further wonder. "Her lungs showed some smoke damage—you mentioned she smoked cigarettes, captain—and there was some alcohol damage to the liver, but I repaired the damage while she was in surgery. From all indications, she took reasonably good care of herself, for the period, at least."

"Yes, if I remember my medical history class from the Academy," Picard said, "humans from the twentieth century were plagued by obesity, diabetes, heart disease, cancer—the list is endless."

"It's hard to imagine how our species survived at all," Troi said, coming into the conversation. She and Beverly sat in the chairs parallel to Picard's desk.

"Indeed. And you said Gul Mosel accompanied you on your tour. Where is he now?" Picard frowned behind his tea cup.

"Gul Mosel is meeting with Ambassador Nugal. I spoke with them briefly in the corridor when I arranged for Deidre to come by my office later this morning for a session," Troi said.

"And what was your impression of the situation, counselor? Do we have reason for concern?"

"She is handling it very well, from what I could gather. I also sense that Gul Mosel's attention is genuine: he has a great desire to discover where she came from and why."

"I suspect that stems more from a desire to catch us engaging in subterfuge," Picard said, his cup tinkling against its saucer as he set it on his desk. "Is there anything else?"

Troi paused, considering. "It may be a little presumptuous, but I also sense a growing affection between them," she said. "It's to be expected that after such an ordeal, and being so uprooted, she would latch onto a friendly overture. For security. It's not uncommon in such cases." She crossed her legs and flipped a lock of hair behind her shoulder. "And as for his motivations, it's my opinion that he is also anxious for her on a personal level. Perhaps not with the degree of feeling that you, I and Dr. Crusher are, captain, but in his own way he is truly concerned for her welfare. And from that, I can see no cause for alarm or apprehension. My advice would be to let it play out on its own."

"Well, he certainly has nothing to gain," Crusher said. "She knows absolutely nothing. He still believes her appearance is a ruse."

"I agree," Picard said. "If Gul Mosel is intent on ferreting out the truth, then we should let him. I think our only course of action remaining is to let Ms. O'Malley prove herself." The door chime sounded suddenly. "Enter," he said.

Commander Riker strode in, bearded and striking. He nodded pleasantly to the women. "Good morning, Captain," he said. "Deanna, doctor. Sorry I'm late. Ambassador Nugal was dissatisfied with his accommodations and it took longer than expected to relocate him. Did I miss anything?"

Picard raised a brow. "Where are his quarters now?"

"He requested deck ten. He said he wanted to be closer to Ten Forward," Riker said. "Is there a problem, captain?" Riker sank into the couch opposite the desk, cocking one ankle over his knee.

Picard chuckled. "Not at all. But I think it's clear what the Cardassians' intentions are. We were just discussing, before you came in Commander, that Gul Mosel has taken an interest in our new passenger. It now seems he intends to camp right outside her doorstep!"

Riker snorted his disapproval. "I have an update on Geordie's progress with the disturbance we first encountered when dropping out of warp."

"And what has he found?"

"When he analyzed the Dr. Crusher's transporter disturbance when she beamed aboard the _Saharon_, Geordie found an integral link. Tachyon radiation, sir."

"But that's to be expected when dealing with time travel," Crusher said.

"Yes, but not with a transporter malfunction." Riker looked pointedly at Picard, who nodded reluctantly.

"Romulans," the captain said wearily.

"What would the Romulans be doing on this side of the Neutral Zone?" Troi asked, frown returning.

"And if it is in fact the Romulans, what kind of experiments could they be conducting?" Picard said. "This does not bode well." An understatement, he thought. "When was the last time he encountered the radiation?"

"It seems to have dropped off dramatically after you and Dr. Crusher visited the _Saharon_," Riker replied. "They must have high-tailed it and ran."

"Probably to report back to their government that their experiment—whatever it may be—was disrupted. I'll notify Starfleet. Have Commander La Forge continue his scans of the area, and have him inform me immediately if they reappear."

"Yes, sir," Riker said, rising from his chair. With a quick nod to Troi and Crusher, he departed.

"Dr. Crusher," Picard said, turning his attention to her. "Thank you. And welcome back to the _Enterprise_."

"Thank you, sir." She rose from her chair and followed Commander Riker.

Troi watched her depart. "Well, this is certainly becoming an interesting situation," she said.

"I think the real question is: what does Ms. O'Malley know of her predicament? Was she left here for us to find, to disrupt the conference? But no," he mumbled to himself, "that seems unlikely.

"Perhaps our arrival interrupted their experiment," Troi said.

"You mean she was not transported to their ship, as they intended. Yes, that makes sense," he said, standing. "This is a largely uninhabited sector, if they need secrecy. The Federation and Cardassia kept the location of this conference secret to avoid such interference. Perhaps we were merely stumbled upon them: in the right place at the wrong time. But what did they plan to do with her?"

Troi shook her head. "I couldn't say, captain."

"I'll need to discuss our findings with Gul Mosel," Picard said.

"And you're not looking forward to it," she said, to which he gave her a look. "Are you sure it's wise at this juncture?"

"I believe we find ourselves between a metaphorical rock and hard place. It is neither wise to tell him, and supremely unwise to not."

"Damned if you do, and damned if you don't," she offered.

"Exactly." Picard nodded.

"Well, I'll let you get on with it, then," she said, rising to leave.

"Thank you, Counselor. And please, contact me after your appointment with Ms. O'Malley."

"Of course, captain."

After Deanna departed, Picard went to the replicator and ordered another tea. Sipping it delicately, he took a seat at his desk and called for Gul Mosel. Leaning back, he struggled for a good way to approach this next conversation. A rock and a hard place, indeed, he thought, his glass tinkling in frustration.


	9. Chapter 9

Timelines: Chapter Nine

"You are authorized to take whatever measures necessary to determine the cause of the Romulans' presence in Federation space."

These were words Captain Jean-Luc Picard was never fond of hearing. They usually amounted to interstellar confrontations, damage to the _Enterprise_, casualties, and general aggravation. But the computer image of Admiral Thompson was currently staring at him, awaiting a reply.

"Yes, sir," Picard managed. "By whatever means necessary."

"Very good, keep me updated," the admiral said. "Thompson out."

Picard watched the screen go dark. He realized that the admiral had not specified exactly how Picard was to determine the Romulans' motives, but recognized the unspoken 'go ahead'. The next time the Romulans appeared, and Picard was sure there would be a next time, the _Enterprise_ would be prepared.

He tapped his comm badge. "Picard to Riker. Report to my Ready Room." Picard smiled grimly. He hoped that Riker remembered his Covert Operations courses at the Academy, because Picard had a feeling the situation would necessitate them, soon rather than later.

Later in her quarters, Deidre had just slipped into her Cardassian medical shift when the door chime rang. She had been in the guest quarters for a good portion of the day, aside from the hour she spent in Counselor Troi's office earlier in the morning. (Suffice to say, although she appreciated Deanna's personal concern, the session had not yielded the results that either hoped for.) The door chime rang again. Glad for the company, as the room was beginning to feel a bit confining, she went to the door. As she approached, it slid open unexpectedly. She was suddenly face to face with Gul Mosel.

"I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, narrowly avoiding a collision. "I was looking for a door handle. I guess I don't need one."

"No," he said, bemused. After a pause: "I came by to see how you are settling in." In truth, he did not know exactly why he suddenly decided to 'drop in', but after his unsettling meeting with Picard, he felt it necessary, or at least practical, to take another look at the woman who had inadvertently caused all this turmoil. And if the Romulans were involved, well, that added a disturbing twist. He had his crew monitoring the area, to prove or disprove the _Enterprise's_ claim.

"Ok, thanks," she said, equally bemused. "I mean, I'm doing ok. Just trying to get used to it all. Feeling better." She waved him inside. "Please, you're not interrupting anything."

Mosel stepped warily inside. "Are the accommodations to your liking?"

"Yeah, they're great. Spacious." They both glanced at the surrounding furniture, all in matching shades of mauve and gray. "Actually," she said, looking at him awkwardly, "I was just running out to the, uhm, the 'replicating center', I think that's what Dr. Crusher called it. You're welcome to come with me," she said hurriedly. "I mean, it took me half an hour to figure out that bloody shower, so I would welcome the help, and then when I got out of the shower, I realized that the only thing I had to wear was this," she pulled the loose fitting fabric from her stomach, "and it just won't do." Recognizing that she was babbling, she shut her mouth with a blush.

Mosel gave her an amused once over. "I'd be happy to assist." If she noticed his assessment, she gave no indication as she ushered him out. "And you're right," he said softly, leaning close enough to invade her personal space, "those clothes _really_ won't do." He stepped back and allowed her to enter into the corridor first.

Deidre suppressed a surprised jolt as his breath passed over her ear. This was getting interesting, she thought. 'Men will be men' must be a universal truth. She smiled when he could not see, her nerves easing somewhat at the familiar male-female game.

"Are you staying onboard long?" she asked as he fell in step beside her.

"Just until the evening. I had a meeting with the ambassador this morning. Captain Picard and I also spoke earlier. You have us all quite intrigued."

"Do I?" To her credit, she looked genuinely surprised. "Well, I guess that's to be expected." She shrugged her shoulders. "I'd rather skip all the intrigue and figure out a way back. I don't know if you can imagine, but this is all so frustrating."

Mosel noticed that she gestured with her hands more avidly than did most humans. On that note, she also had a particular way of speaking, a different dialect, than most of the crew. It was similar to Picard's, and he found it almost pleasing to the ear. This surprised him.

"I am sorry about all of this," he said, realizing as he spoke that the words were more than a sympathetic gesture. He could not imagine himself in her predicament; not from lack of imagination, but for the sheer terror of it. He glanced at her, her hair curling damply against her neck, her nose sweeping gently down into her lips. "So," he said, taking a breath and steadying himself, "what else are we shopping for?"

They arrived at the replicating center some time later, having lost their way along deck ten and arriving mysteriously at deck twenty-six. Finally they asked directions of a suspicious and grouchy ensign, and they stumbled their way to the center, nearly incapacitated by giggles when they finally arrived, the center some ten doors down from Deidre's quarters.

"I believe that was a much more entertaining tour than Dr. Crusher's this morning," he said, as they selected a replicating terminal.

"Yes, she wasn't at all pleased that you accompanied us. I admit, I didn't understand why you did." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "Most of the crew I've met don't seem to like you." She let the silence lengthen significantly. He demonstrated how to activate the machine and scroll through the options. She started with clothing.

"Cardassians and humans have not always gotten along," he said eventually, answering her question with caution.

"But that's not why they scowl at you in the hallways and why Dr. Crusher always looks like you just farted on her dead aunt's grave."

Mosel shook his head. "What answer could I give that would compare to such artful and bizarrely compelling description?"

"Try an honest one," she said, giving him another look. "You know what's sad," she asked, and without waiting for reply said, "all the clothes I want are listed in the 'Costume' section. I feel incongruous." Laughing, she punched the keys and a blue cotton dress appeared on the pad. "All right, I've got this thing figured out." A pair of black leggings materialized, followed quickly by a pair of black ballet flats.

"Are you still waiting for an answer?" he asked, watching her clothes appear with interest. They were certainly dissimilar to what other humans wore on the ship.

"Oh, definitely," she said.

He sighed in mock defeat. "The Federation and Cardassia were at war until recently. In fact, the Cardassian presence here is to discuss amendments to the peace treaty. It seems our two species have always been at odds."

"Typical human behavior. Distrusting anything that's different." She clacked at the keys distractedly, producing an over-sized white t-shirt, a pair of wool socks, and slim-fit grey tank in succession.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," he said, "but I see your point." He considered her comment for a moment. "I didn't realize humans racially profiled other species." This statement seemed oddly incompatible with the Federation's stance.

"Maybe we've gotten over it three-hundred years," she muttered. "Do you mind?"

Mosel looked confused. "Pardon?"

"I'm going to replicate my knickers," she said, another blush rising on her cheeks. "It's rather personal."

"Ah, of course," he said, and turned his back. Mosel noticed the other patrons sending them inquisitive glances, but he ignored them.

Deidre produced a selection of panties and a bra, and tucked them at the bottom of the pile. "You can turn around now. This is it for the clothes," she said, producing a fitted green sweater and a pair of blue jeans. "Awesome. I can get Sevens for free."

"That's not very much," he said, eyeing the small, folded pile.

"I don't plan on being here that long." Clacking again, she produced a makeup kit and grey messenger bag. "And now, for the pièce de résistance." She drummed her index fingers against the console, drawing more confused stares from the surrounding patrons. Mosel looked around conspicuously. "This is almost worth going forward in time for, getting this for free," she said, as a brown Hummingbird True Vintage appeared on the pad. "Mmm, gorgeous."

"Is it an instrument?" he asked, observing her obvious delight.

"Only one of the best acoustic guitars available," she said. She lifted it from the pad and slung the strap over her shoulder. Strumming it absently, she hummed a bit. "Needs to be tuned." She set the guitar aside. "I can do that later." Quickly, she replicated a pile of blank sheet music and a pack of Bic pens. "I looked all over for something to write with," she said, waving the box in front of him. "I guess you don't use pens in the future."

"Most writing is digitized." Mosel watched as she shoved her clothes and paper into the messenger bag.

"All right, I'm ready." Pulling the messenger bag over her shoulder, she tucked the guitar into its fabric bag, slinging it over the opposite shoulder. "Thanks for your help. I'd still be punching keys and ending up with God knows what."

He nodded. "My pleasure." Giving her due credit, he noticed that she did not lack efficiency.

The walk back to her quarters took significantly less time (turning right instead of left out of the replicating center seemed to help, they both agreed).

"Come on in," she said, laughing, when they arrived at her door. "I'm going to change real quick." She disappeared into the sleeping area and Mosel settled himself in a chair.

This was an interesting cultural experience, he thought, as he crossed his leg, jangling his ankle against his knee, but it did not amount to anything. Her demeanor was completely natural, her tone jovial and polite. She was not hiding anything, he was coming to realize. She was as honest as she declared herself to be. This knowledge overwhelmed him and he chuckled disconcertedly. The Federation was not lying or engaging in subterfuge. The Romulans had brought her here from the past, and now Mosel was faced with the task, along with the crew of the _Enterprise_, of discovering exactly _why_. Incredible, he thought. The situation was illogical and improbable, but fascinating nevertheless; the intrigue it offered was exhilarating. Now, however, he had to convince his father, and through him the entire Detapa Council and High Command, that this was the case. He shuddered. When Deidre emerged a few minutes later, he looked at her with newfound respect.

"How do I look?" she asked, doing a mock twirl. She had changed into the blue dress (he now saw it had a grey pattern overlay) and wore the black leggings and ballet flats. A splash of makeup completed the ensemble. Ever the gentleman, he admitted that she looked lovely.

With a slight smile, she kneeled in front of the coffee table and set down the bag of her old clothing she brought over from the _Saharon_. "Most of these are unwearable, I know, but I had a bracelet," she said, in explanation. Digging through the bag, she pulled out a pair of jeans and denim jacket, both crusty and stained with her blood. She set them gingerly down, her good-humor lost. "God," she said quietly, looking down at them and then back up at Mosel, wide-eyed. "I was really messed up."

"Yes," he nodded, "it was a horrible ordeal. The doctors were unsure you would recover."

"I can believe that," she murmured, pulling her scarf from the bag and setting it gently on the table next to the other items. "I'll need to get these cleaned." She continued to rummage in the bag. With a soft "aha," she gently removed her hand, her fingers cupped around a gold bracelet. She stood and went to the bathroom sink, rinsing it under the water.

Emerging from the washroom, she said, "Can you help me with the clasp? I always have trouble with it."

Mosel rose from the chair and took her arm. "Ah, I see." He fiddled with the clasp, his fingers a bit too thick, but eventually he managed the task. "There you go," he said, releasing her hand. "It's a beautiful bracelet." He stepped back and they observed each other.

"Thanks, my brothers gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday." Deidre rubbed her palms down her thighs, tapping her fingers nervously. "Well," she said. They had come to a uncomfortable standstill. "Would you like to get dinner? I haven't eaten…"

"Ten Forward?" Instantly Mosel chided himself for acting on the gratuitous urge to further socialize. Obviously he would learn nothing new from her, and the issue of Romulan involvement was pressing (regardless of Picard's assurance that he would contact Mosel immediately upon the Romulans' next arrival).

"Ten Forward is good," she said, nodding vigorously. She noted that Mosel obviously disliked the awkward silence as much as she. He appeared vaguely uncomfortable.

"I think dinner is an excellent idea," he said, gesturing her forward again. They departed her quarters and found the bar without any difficulties ("Thank god," Deidre said. "Next time we would have ended up in Alaska," to which Mosel merely nodded, bemused.)

Ten Forward held its usual crowd of Starfleet personnel and civilians; Mosel noted that a few of his officers were present as well, sharing a bottle of kanar. They stood to attention as he passed, and Mosel nodded for them to resume their seats. He touched Deidre's elbow. He felt the officers' curious stares. "Shall we sit near the windows?" he asked.

"Perfect," she said. They found a table along the starboard side, nearest the window. "I just can't believe it," she said, once they had settled. She stared out the window as she said it. "Humans. In space. Aliens. I never imagined it. Not in my lifetime." She shook her head and turned to him. He sat across the table, watching her with a kind look. "But I suppose when you've grown up with it all your life, like you have, you don't give it a second thought."

"Not everyday, no," he agreed. "But it is beautiful." He followed her glance and admired the stars. From his seat, he could see the _Saharon _quietlyawaiting him off the bow. "What is the most difficult thing for you, about this whole ordeal?"

"Counselor Troi asked me that this morning, actually," Deidre said, but before she had an opportunity to elaborate, their server appeared.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Guinan." The woman smiled warmly, if distantly, at the pair. "How are you today?" Guinan usually did not serve the tables directly, but she had heard the rumors of the time traveling woman passed down the ship's gossip mill and was intensely curious. She was satisfied to find that even upon their first meeting, her intuition told her this woman's appearance was significant. And something to be wary of. A small smile quirked at her lips.

"Very well, thank you," Deidre said, and Mosel nodded.

"What can I get you today?" Guinan's gaze passed over them like a lighthouse beacon against the sea, searching, probing. Deidre shifted uncomfortably.

"Cardassian ale," Mosel said, seemingly unaffected. "Deidre?"

Guinan held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, before Deidre replied, not removing her eyes, "I don't suppose you have a wheat on tap?"

"No," Guinan shook her head, amused. "But I recommend the Cardassian ale. You'll like it. I ordered a stock for the conference."

"All right, thanks." Deidre nodded and Guinan withdrew. "Well," she said after a moment. "That was disconcerting." She looked at Mosel.

"Really? I didn't notice."

"It was like she could see right through me," she whispered. "Or something like that. Weird."

Before Mosel could respond, Guinan returned with their beverages. "Is there anything else?" she asked, her eyes again finding Deidre's.

Gulping, Deidre decided she was acting foolish. "Do you have vegetable korma," she asked.

"Oh yes, but it's served spicy." Guinan smiled slightly.

"All the best dishes are," she responded, with a mirrored grin. Guinan nodded, pleased, and turned to Mosel.

"Well, if we're going down that route," he said, "hasperat, please."

"Very good," Guinan said. She slipped quietly away.

Mosel watched her leave. "I see what you mean." Deidre nodded, taking a sip of her ale. Her cheeks puckered. "You don't like it?" He chuckled and took a large mouthful.

"I got used to Guinness, I can get used to this." She took another drink. "You know, it's not too bad." She coughed a bit. "Better than that bloody fish juice! After a straight diet of Cardassian food, I'm ready to sink my teeth into something real. And not involving seafood, in any way, shape or form. And that's saying something, coming from an O'Malley."

"Oh, come now," he said with an outright laugh, "it isn't so bad."

"Do you eat it?" she snapped, though it was lighthearted.

"No, I don't," he admitted. "One of the perks of the future, you can eat whatever food you desire, from whatever planet strikes your fancy." He raised his glass in a mock toast.

"I'll drink to that!" And they clinked glasses.

"Now, Deidre," he said (and Deidre, surprisingly, did not mind in the slightest that he mispronounced her name with a flat 'e'; it flushed warmly over her), "you haven't answered my question."

"Ah yes, what I find most disconcerting about the future. Well." She tapped her glass with her fingers. "I can tell you what I don't mind, that's easy. The company, for one," she teased, tossing a glance his way. He nodded his thanks. "But what is the hardest? It's the not knowing, I think. Not knowing when I'll return, when I'll see my brothers again. We're very close. Obviously." She took a drink.

"Cardassians are very intimate with their families. I understand," he said sympathetically. "I have a brother, we're good friends. I would be devastated if he were somehow taken from me." He wondered momentarily why he chose to share that, but decided it was nothing particularly incriminating. "But what if you can't return?"

She shuddered. "I can't even entertain that thought. The idea of never seeing them again is awful." She shuddered again. "You know, it's odd, but I feel like there's something I should remember, about them, I mean. Whenever I'm reminded of them, there's a little knot that curls tighter in my stomach. I don't know how to describe it." She glanced at him and he indicated for her to continue. "I spoke with Counselor Troi about it. She offered to put me under hypnosis—are you familiar with it?—but I said no. What's the point of knowing, if I'll never get to go back anyway?"

"It may give a clue to this mystery," he encouraged.

"Doubtful. My brothers have nothing to do with this. It's probably just fear. Guilt over leaving them." She took another drink and eyed him speculatively. "How about you, here I am babbling on. How are you dealing with all of this? I imagine it's stressful to have both the conference and my little mystery on your plate."

"It's not so difficult," he lied. "It's all in a Gul's duty to Cardassia." He shrugged and noticed his glass was nearly empty.

"That's a cop-out if I ever heard one," she said. Before she could expound, Guinan approached with their plates. 

"I'm sorry for the wait," she said, "I thought I'd give you a moment to talk."

"Ta," Deidre said, as she put the dinners down. She indicated to their glasses and Guinan nodded.

"I'll bring another round," she said, and departed.

"What I mean is," Deidre continued, "this conference is pretty important. That's no secret. And then here I come, barging in the middle of it with my mysterious, time traveling appearance. That has got to raise some eyebrows. Or, whatever you have in lieu of," she said, scanning his face for eyebrows and finding none. He raised his brow lightly, for her amusement, and with a giggle, she continued, "Dr. Crusher and Counselor Troi have already expressed how anxious Starfleet is to get their hands on me, tests and interviews and all that, and I figure your government, or whatever rules your planet, has probably got the same interests. Which would logically put a strain on you trying to figure this whole thing out, and which also explains why you're so keen on my company. Now, now, I see you shaking your head. I've noticed how often you come around as compared to the others, Captain Picard and such. Don't worry, it wasn't because I thought I was totally irresistible and adorable." She rolled her eyes sarcastically. "You want to figure me out. So I'll let you in on a little secret: what you see is what you get. I'm not that complicated." She laughed and drained her first glass of ale before settling into the second one.

Mosel stared at her, slightly impressed. This woman was equally infuriating and clever. Unfortunately, that was a combination that always attracted Mosel and he could already feel it pulling at him now. Curse the luck, he thought, his head was already spinning: not just from the ale, but from her unanticipated proclamation. Stranger still, he found himself without an adequate reply. He mustered himself and looked down at her plate. "You haven't touched your food," he said, and was gratified when she looked as thrown off her guard as he.

"And you haven't either!" She raised her eyebrows mischievously and took up her fork. "Bottoms up." She took a bite and her eyes immediately watered. "Guinan wasn't kidding," she choked, taking a large swig of ale.

Mosel eyed his hasperat. Taking a sizeable bite, he discovered that this particular hasperat had enough spice to bite back. He grabbed for his drink in much the same manner as Deidre had, taking an even larger gulp. "For the love of Hebitia," he gasped.

She looked at him over her plate and broke into a fit of giggles. "Jaysus," she spluttered, and he joined her, laughing despite the burning sensation that spread over his tongue and lips, over the roof of his mouth. He laughed until his stomach hurt, and Deidre joined him.

Across the bar, Guinan observed the pair with satisfaction. She wiped the bar with a rag as the pair nearly drowned themselves in laughter. Sometimes it just felt good to laugh, she thought, wiping on and wiping off. The simple things. She smiled.

"I've a throat on me tonight," Deidre said at last. They were halfway through their plates and down another round in ale. Her head was sitting lightly on her shoulders after two Cardassian ales.

"We should switch to kanar," Mosel said, laying his hand on her forearm.

She leaned forward a bit, conspiratorially. "What the feck is 'kanar'?"

"It's Cardassian, you'll like it," he said quickly. He motioned to Guinan, who came over for his order.

"Oh great, a universal tour of alcohol, literally. I'll end up with the horrors my first night out on the galaxy."

Guinan brought the bottle and quietly left them to it.

"I can't do this," Deidre said.

"Do what?" Mosel poured their glasses and they chinked them together in another mock toast.

"Live in another century, what do you think?" The warm tingle of alcohol flushed through her from head to feet. The pub noise around them dimmed to a muted roar. "I can't handle this, any of this." She waved her glass around and giggled, embarrassed, as it sloshed over the side. "Shit. I can't even work the showers."

"Of course you can. You learned how to replicate your items earlier," Mosel said, who realized, as he spoke, that he had let the ale creep up and render him useless. In other words, he thought, I am intoxicated. Wonderful.

"My brothers would shite at this. Feck, they don't even let me go to the pub alone, for fear some hotrod will try to pick up on me. And here I am stuck in the future, alone."

"Are you calling me a 'hotrod'?" He feigned insult.

"Oh please," she scoffed. "You're the Gil—."

"Gul." 

"Of a Cardassian _warship_, for God's sake. This is so beyond my comprehension." She down the un-spilled portion of her kanar in a one fatal gulp. Mosel refilled both glasses as she stopped for a breath.

"It's all too complicated, I understand. My father," he confided, "is a member of the Detapa Council, one of our highest governing bodies. If it weren't for him, I probably wouldn't have my commission." The kanar was making him bold, but he hardly cared. "This is my first run out of Cardassian space. And here I am, having dinner—."

"A date," she giggled,

"With an alien woman who has fallen—literally—out of space, out of the _past_, and I'm supposed to figure out why she—you—have come to be here. And now the Romulans turn out to be responsible! It's a right conundrum. My father is going to have a fit." He glanced, paranoid, around the bar, but the tables near them had emptied once the dinner hour had passed.

"Romulans?" She sounded momentarily exhausted from asking every time she did not understand a futuristic word.

"Romulans," he said decisively. "Picard believes they brought you here from the past to perform experiments on you."

"Those bastards!" She exclaimed, startling a few patrons who lingered near the bar. She clapped her hand over her mouth and looked abashed. "What the hell does he plan to do about it?" she hissed. "He won't let them get away with it, will he? I mean, why me? What did they plan to do?"

Mosel waved his hands in front of his face, which Deidre assumed was the Cardassian equivalent of a shrug. "We'll confront them eventually," he said.

"Well, I feckin' want to be there when you do. Give them a piece of my mind, what were those…_Romulans_ thinking?" The alien word came out garbled and inarticulate.

"I can have that arranged," he laughed.

"You do that." She pointed her finger into his breastplate at every word to punctuate her seriousness. He laughed as she pushed him slightly backward with each jab.

Guinan approached them then, and Deidre removed her finger. "I brought you dessert," she explained, "to tame the spice." She set the plate on the table and backed away.

"Cheesecake," Deidre said excitedly, as she put her spoon to it. At Mosel's confusion, she offered the bite to him instead. "Try it." She popped the spoon into his mouth and pulled it out as he took the nibble.

"It's…different." He licked his lips. "Interesting. Sweet. Creamy." His face twitched.

"Excellent," she amended and had her own bite. She swallowed and laughed. Leaning forward, beckoning him to do the same, she mock-whispered, "You want to know a secret? I'm sloshed."

"You want to know an even bigger one," he asked, leaning further until their noses almost touched. She nodded eagerly. "So am I." He chuckled and plucked the spoon from between her fingers. She gasped in indignation.

"So," she said, referencing their previous conversation as his mouth was occupied with cheesecake. "Your father is going to have your head if you don't produce some solid evidence? He sounds like a right arse."

Mosel swallowed and dabbed it mouth with a napkin. "He has his moments. I love my father."

"So do I, and my father's dead," she said.

"I don't know what to tell him." His shoulders slumped in defeat. "This scheme, this situation, is beyond ludicrous."

Deidre swiped the spoon from him, staying another vicious stab at the cheesecake. "Just tell him the truth. I mean, feck, I'm the evidence, sitting right here. You can't go wrong, and I think he'll respect you more for taking the more difficult, honest route." She stabbed the air with her spoon, emphasizing her point.

He considered her for a moment. "You are definitely not Cardassian."

"God," she sighed, "I had hoped that would be obvious by now."

When the kanar was drained to its last, they rose unsteadily from the table. They walked, mostly in a straight line, through Ten Forward and had the good fortune to pick the correct door from which to exit.

Deidre leaned against Mosel's arm as they left the bar. "This is bad," she said, her feet moving sluggishly against the floor.

"And I have to transport in this condition," he moaned, though both knew he was not serious.

The found her quarters a number of doors down. "This is me," she said, swaying a bit.

"Indeed." The number seemed to read '101010', though he would swear it read '1010' when they first departed that door. He rubbed his eyes and looked down at her.

"I had a lovely time," she said sing-songingly, enjoying the human joke. Mosel looked closer at her eyes. Had they changed color again? Without thinking, he grabbed her head between his palms and held it still. She gasped and raised her hands to his.

"What color are your eyes?" he slurred roughly. "I have been trying to decide since we met and it's driving me mad." He brought her face closer, observing her nervous, fluttering lashes.

"They're grey," she said, uncertainly. This was quickly becoming odd. Stranger-danger, she thought randomly.

"No, they're not," he said, leaning impossibly closer. "They're blue." And then his mouth crashed against hers. It was less of a kiss than a meeting of teeth and blunt lips, she decided, but found she was pressing against him with equal force. He pushed her against the wall and she clutched his shoulders fiercely, pulling him nearer.

As soon as it began, it ended, as he staggered away. "I have to return to my ship," he said, turning on his heel as she still leaned against the wall. She watched him retreat quickly down the hallway.

Regaining her breath, she pushed away from the wall and entered her quarters. Looking confusedly about, she went to the messenger bag and retrieved the box of Bics and a sheet of paper. Scribbling furiously, she smiled to herself before throwing the pen down and stumbling to the sofa. She collapsed face down into the cushions, arms and legs thrown about, and promptly passed out.

Mosel was glad the corridors of both the _Enterprise_ and _Saharon_ were mostly deserted this time of night. He was in no mood, and in no capacity, to speak with anyone. What, in the name of all Cardassia, was he thinking? Not to say he had not enjoyed it, because, the State as his witness, he had, but this was incredibly poor timing. And she was human! Not as bad as Bajoran, not by half, but still. His father would kill him. Father! Mosel groaned and stumbled to his desk.

Of course, without fail, his message indicator light flashed an insistent yellow. A transmission downloaded on the screen from his father's personal computer. I should not have put this off, Mosel thought miserably. 

"Father," he said, making the connection. From the looks of it, he had interrupted Father during his midday nap. The older man shuffled to the monitor in his house robe, hair slightly disheveled.

"Ellil," Father said. "Are you well, son?"

Mosel imagined he must look a state (and probably smelled equally potent, he mused). "I'm all right. It was something I ate. I have news."

"I should hope so," Father said, drawing himself up. "It's been too long since you last reported."

"Yes, I'm sorry. But this is important." Mosel paused partly to build the effect, but mostly to reel in his head, as the room was spinning mercilessly. "She really is from the past, father. She has been brought here by the Romulans for a nefarious experiment." The silence lengthened and Mosel's nerves were strained by the time Father spoke.

Suddenly, Father laughed, but it was not kindly. "What sort of ridiculous notion is this? Now, I recognize that you have only recently attained your position, but that is no reason to be acting irrationally." Father's screen image glared at him. "You will review the evidence, and you will return with a legitimate solution to this situation. Now, listen to me, Ellil," father said, but Mosel cut him off.

"No, father, sir, you listen to me." The elder Mosel's eyes widened and he ceased his tirade. "This woman is from the past. She has been brought here against her will. You must believe me that this is not a Federation plot against Cardassia. Trust me, Father. The facts are incontrovertible." Father began to splutter his outrage, but Mosel interrupted him again. "Now, this is my report to the Council. I shall be submitting the same report to High Command, along with my recommendation that further cooperation with Starfleet is necessary to resolve this issue. They are not our enemies anymore, father. Mosel out," he said, and his screen darkened over his father's astounded face.

He flopped back in his chair and dragged his nails over his brow ridges. He breathed deeply for a moment before lunging out of the chair with effort. Depositing his uniform on the floor to rest alongside three days of laundry, he washed his face and cleaned his teeth in his bathroom before curling into bed. To hell with his father, he thought, and the whole Detapa Council. They were an irrational and ineffective group.

Banishing those thoughts, he instead recalled, with pleasure, the surprise on Deidre's face when he grasped at her. He remembered how she had clung to him and he smiled. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow, he would mend his abrupt behavior. Tomorrow. He fell into a heavy sleep, already planning his apology.


	10. Chapter 10

Timelines: Chapter Ten

The dream began inside the abbey this time, as it sometimes did. Deidre sat amongst the mourners, their hollow figures moving silently about her. Music wafted from gigantic organ tubes that stretched high beyond the altar. Sunlight flickered against her bracelet as her hands lay limply in her lap. When the dream first came to her, she had merely sat in the pew, mimicking their prayers. At a loss. This time around, however, she stood.

"Is this my funeral?" she said, her voice choked in her throat. She looked around, but the mourners were caught in their own ghostly mass. They continued their prayers, lips moving silently, eyes looking forward, the music tinkling louder. "I didn't die!" She wringed her hands and yelled above the organ, but still they did not hear.

She pushed her way down the pew and into the aisle, passing through the row of specters as if in a fog, their mist clinging to her. At the front of the abbey she saw two twin caskets. The priest made the sign of the cross in the air above them. "Whose funeral is this?" she cried, stepping forward.

The scene changed. Again she stood on the rooftop of her apartment building. She glanced around, heard the siren blast from far off, approaching. "Why are you showing me this?" She screamed into the chill Belfast wind.

Her legs carried her to the precipice. Gasping at the cold and surprised that the dream had not already woken her, she was unsure of what she would see. She glanced over the edge of the roof. Below her, a fire raged on the street. A sick feeling crawled through her stomach, beads of cold sweat forming on her backside. "What is this?" Whispering. The heat scorched her face. She leaned farther over, her ankle catching on the side of edging. Crying out, she tripped over the side and plummeted into the blaze.

She reentered her body with a jolt, heart hammering against her chest. The door chime rang again. Rolling off the couch, she staggered, disoriented, to the door.

"Captain!" She reeled back, light washing over her from the corridor.

Picard glanced into the darkened room; at the dark mascara smears under eyes, her wrinkled dress. He looked momentarily embarrassed. "I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" He prepared to make a strategic withdrawal.

"No, not at all. I apologize. You weren't who I was expecting." She passed a hand over her face, feeling the heavy grime of old makeup. Her mouth tasted like a sewer and she silently cursed Cardassian ale. "Can I help you?"

"I came by to invite you to breakfast. I imagine you must be lonely, cooped up in here." He felt a little sheepish, but she waved away his doubts.

"That would be lovely, captain, thank you. But can I meet you in, say, fifteen minutes? I should get cleaned up."

"Of course," he said, ever cordial. "My quarters are on deck eight, if that is acceptable. Room 3601."

"Great, I'll meet you there in a few," she said. "Thank you." Picard stepped away from the door and it closed behind him. Deidre rushed to the water closet as soon as his back was turned.

"Feck," she said, rummaging for a washcloth. Finding one tucked away in a cupboard (obviously, these particular quarters weren't used much, she griped), she doused it in cold water and scrubbed her face mercilessly. Engaging in a similar search for toothpaste and brush but coming up short, she put a dash of hand soap on her finger and rubbed it around her teeth. She rinsed repeatedly, spitting the bubbles out with disgust, and dashed into the bedroom.

Stripping out of the dress, she pulled jeans on hurriedly over her shoes, jumping first on one leg, then the other. She slid into the green sweater and retied her hair. She blew into her hand to test her breath. Passable, she decided.

During the walk to the captain's quarters, she had a moment to digest the dream, pushed to the back of her mind with the mad haste that followed her awakening. She felt that seeing over the edge of the roof, into the blaze, was the pinnacle of the dream, but what the hell did it mean? The last funeral she had attended was her father's, but that was nigh on five years ago (at least, in my time frame, she thought). A sudden feeling of dread nagged at her, and she paused momentarily, as if forgetting something. Shaking it off, she continued down the corridor. It was odd also, she thought, that she dreamed of the roof, when her last memories of the past were of being on the roof (for what purpose, she could not recall) before she was snatched away. The nagging feeling sank deep into her stomach and gnawed at her: there must be more to it. And frankly, she decided, she was bloody sick of having that dream.

Arriving outside Picard's quarters, she smoothed her hair and searched for a doorbell. (Hers had ringed often enough lately that she figured they would not be difficult to find.) When she sounded the chime, a muffled voice called for her to enter, and the door slid open. She stepped inside a spacious, well-lit sitting room, lined with books and other antique Earth artifacts.

"Good morning," she said, as brightly as her hangover would allow her.

Picard rose from the breakfast table and welcomed her in. "I'm so glad you could come," he said, the picture of gentile politeness. He shook her hand gently and ushered her to the breakfast table.

"You were right earlier," she said, taking the chair he offered. "Those rooms can be a little lonely. Although, I tried to get out a bit last night."

"That's nice." He poured her a cup of tea, offering cream and sugar, which she eagerly accepted. "Did Counselor Troi introduce you to any of our younger crew members?"

Deidre laughed lightly. "No, she offered, but I didn't want to disturb. Actually, Gul Mosel dropped in last night, and after he helped me at the replicating center, we had dinner in Ten Forward." She watched as Picard's mouth hardened almost imperceptibly. "He's not all bad, actually." She served herself scrambled eggs, bacon and sliced grilled tomatoes. "You've laid a full English breakfast, captain," she said. "It looks delicious."

"Yes," he agreed, buttering a slice of toast. "I had hoped it would help you feel more at home."

"That's very thoughtful of you. It does." She stirred her tea, sliding the spoon out along the edge (an act of refinement in the civilized world, her grandmother had once said, before making her practice it for an entire summer afternoon), and laid it on the saucer. "Your ship is magnificent, captain. It's extraordinary how far humanity has come in the past three hundred years."

"Thank you. I'm glad to hear you say that. Counselor Troi commented that you seem to be handling the transition very well."

"Admittedly, it helps knowing that there may be a chance to return." She glanced at Picard hopefully. "I know we haven't had much of an opportunity to discuss it, but I hope your crew is making some headway into returning me."

"You'll know as soon as I do, my dear. But unfortunately, we have very little to go on. You must understand that this could potentially take years, if it is even possible at all."

"When we spoke last night at dinner, Gul Mosel mentioned there was outside involvement," she said cautiously. "A species called 'Romulan'?"

Picard sighed. "Yes," he admitted, reluctantly. "We believe we inadvertently interfered with an experiment they were running when we dropped out of warp in this sector."

"So, without them, you'll probably never get me home. That seems to be what Gul Mosel thinks."

Picard agreed. "But we'll never stop trying," he said, trying to be helpful.

"Captain," she said, putting down her fork. "I wanted to tell you, I decided last night after speaking with Ellil, that I want to be there when you confront the Romulans."

"Ms. O'Malley, Deidre," he said, and his tone softened, "the Federation's relationship with Romulus is an uneasy one. I'm afraid it is unlikely that you will be able to participate."

"Please, captain, imagine for a moment that you are me." She caught his eye and held it. "Would you not do anything to confront the people who stole you away from those you loved? Wouldn't you want to ask them 'why'? Please, at least consider my request."

He nodded reluctantly. Starfleet would have a few choice words for him if he was to allow her access to her would-be abductors, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. He observed her worried face, the darkened shadows under her eyes that had nothing to do with old makeup. "I'll consider it," he said. "But only if you call me Jean-Luc."

She smiled thinly at his attempt at levity. "Of course. Jean-Luc." She took up her fork again and savored a bit of tomato. "'Jean-Luc', that's a French name," she said, taking his cue to move the discussion away from the Romulans. "How does an Englishman come by such?"

The rest of breakfast passed with tales of Picard's childhood in France, and the adoption of English as the dominate language during the three centuries she had missed. Deidre had difficulty believing that French was all but extinct, but after the Jean-Luc spoke a few words, she lay aside her concerns ("I guess they finally decided who won that millennium old game of cat and mouse," she said at one point).

The food settled surprisingly well in her stomach, her hangover decreased by a degree, and she helped herself to seconds. Overall, the replicated food wasn't half-bad, she decided.

"I have to admit," Picard confided at one point, "inviting you here was not purely for your benefit. I've been looking forward to speaking with you for a while."

"Thank you, sir," she said, thinking of Ellil the night before, and she laughed.

"I am curious," he said. "What was the twentieth century like?"

She set aside her utensils and poured them both another cup of tea from the pot. "That's a difficult question," she finally admitted. "I'm not sure how to answer it." She creamed and sugared her tea in the ensuing pause. "It seemed so complicated then. All of it, living," she said, noticing his confusion. "Now my life, as it used to be, seems incredibly simple. I can't believe I used to worry about making my rent when here you and your crew are, making decisions that will have ramifications across the galaxy or farther. I'm ashamed, almost, that I used to stress the little stuff."

"It's all a matter of perspective," he assured her. "You've done the best with what has been presented. It's a very mature way to approach this. I can see why Counselor Troi is so impressed."

"Please, you're flattering me unnecessarily." She sipped her tea to hide her blush, uncomfortable. "I will admit, it hasn't been easy. I've been having some difficulties, actually."

"Really," he looked concerned. "How so? Has Gul Mosel acted in any way untoward?"

"Oh, no! Not at all," she continued to blush, much to her dissatisfaction. "He's fine, actually he's been a great help. It's my dreams." Suddenly, she felt self-conscious saying it aloud. It all seemed so silly and childish.

Picard noticed her unease and tried to encourage her. "Please, go on."

"It's just that, I keep dreaming of home. Well, not home exactly, it's an abbey, the one at Innisfallen," she said. Picard nodded to indicate he was familiar with it. She continued, "I keep going back there in my dreams, sometimes in the forest outside, other times I'm in the abbey when the dream begins. But I always end up on the roof of my apartment building, where I was when the Romulans took me. When I look over the edge of the roof, I see something burning on the street, a huge fire." She paused and considered it, grateful, if still a bit shy, to have someone finally listening. "It just makes me think that maybe I'm forgetting something. Something to do with this, maybe? Maybe I've forgotten a clue as to why I'm here, and the dream is my subconscious mind trying to tell me."

Picard nodded slowly. "Have you spoken with Counselor Troi about this?"

"Not in so many words. During our appointment yesterday, I mentioned that I felt like I was forgetting something. From before. She recommended hypnosis. I did that once at university, sort of a favor for my mate in the psychology department. I didn't really like it."

"It may be beneficial in this instance to take Deanna's advice," he said. "Your dreams are not likely to assuage these feelings."

"You're right. I know you are. I'm just not sure I want to remember, on top of everything else. Especially since I don't know what I bloody forgot!" She considered it for a moment, until her brow creased in reluctant admittance. "Oh, very well. Hypnosis it is. Damn the luck. Hopefully, you'll get something out of it to resolve this."

With Deidre's leave, Picard tapped his comm. badge and scheduled an afternoon appointment with Counselor Troi. "If you will allow, I would like to be present during the session," he said, after he completed his communication with Deanna (who had seemed as relieved as Picard that she decided to undergo the procedure, to Deidre's minor irritation).

"Of course," she said. "I expected as much. It's just all a bunch of bollocks. Invite whomever you think should be there." She glanced around the cabin, her eyes alighting on the bookshelf, desperate to change the subject. "You enjoy antique books, Jean-Luc?"

He raised his eyebrow at the non-sequitur. "Yes, collecting them has become a passion of mine."

"I guess people don't read old-fashioned books anymore. That's a shame." She stood and went to the bookshelf. Trailing her finger along the spines, she browsed a few of the titles. "I was never much of a reader, but it looks like you have a fine collection."

He joined her at the bookshelf. "I've spent many years acquiring them." He dusted imperceptible dust from the top of one. "I noticed you had a guitar in your quarters. Do you play?"

She nodded. "My focus at the Conservatory was the history and development of traditional Irish folk music, utilizing the lyrics to satisfy my vocal requirements, but I play the guitar in our band back in Belfast."

"You know, I've always had a keenness for traditional music," he said fondly. "If only I could collect it like I collect books…" They moved away from the bookshelves and settled on his couch.

"Irish music has had a tremendous influence on European and transatlantic musical theories and practices," she agreed. "Jaysus, I sound like I'm on my dissertation committee."

Picard chuckled and asked hopefully, "You wouldn't happen to know 'Carrickfergus' by any chance?"

She snorted before she realized the indecency of the sound. Embarrassed, she said, "I think every Irishman knows at least one stanza of 'Carrickfergus'."

"Would you consider singing it for me at some point? As a personal favor?" he asked, as she moaned.

"Agh, I knew you were going to ask me that." Her laugh was between a chuckle and an aggravated sigh. "Just to hear it from an authentic, historical, and classically trained Irish singer, right?" He agreed and she shook her head, rubbing her temple. "You know, it's funny you should bring that song up. It's been playing through my head since I arrived."

"It's rather appropriate on a level, isn't it?"

"Aye," she said. "All right." Clearing her throat, she sat up a bit straighter, hands folded in her lap. She began to sing. "I wish I was in Carrickfergus, only for nights in Ballygran, I would swim over the deepest ocean, the deepest ocean for my love to find…"

Picard smiled as she sang, watching her gaze pass beyond the room into memory, the shadow lifting from her for a glimmering moment.

"…My childhood friends and mine own relations have all passed on now like the melting snow. But I'll spend my days an endless roamer, soft is the grass I walk…"

It was eerily prophetic, Picard noted. Her voice, though clear and well-taught, held a note of sorrow, appropriate for the tune, but he sensed it ran deeper than the old ballad.

"…Ah, but I'm sick now, and my days are numbered so come all ye young men and lay me down."

He clapped softly, treasuring the quiet that descended as the last note passed from her lips. "That was lovely, my dear," he said, as the moment lingered.

She dipped her head shyly. "Thank you. It's been a long time since I sang that."

"You certainly have an appreciative audience here," he said.

"I'll remember that." She glanced at the breakfast dishes. "Shall I help you tidy up?"

Picard stood and straightened his uniform. "Don't even think it. Your company was pleasure enough."

Deidre rose from the couch and took his hand. "Thank you for your invitation, I quite enjoyed myself. I should get along and sort out my day."

"Of course. You're always welcome. I shall see you in a few hours." He walked her to the door.

"And please," she said, as the doors slid open. "Consider my request." Picard nodded and she departed.

Picard hummed a tune as he cleaned the breakfast table and put the dishes back on the replicator pad. Whatever her other talents may be, he thought, she had a natural amiability that easily won her friends. He found himself drawn in by her candid and friendly nature. For a moment, he understood why Gul Mosel preferred her company. Her good humor was infectious. As he tidied around his quarters, he sang a few bars. "My childhood days bring back sad reflections of happy hours I spent long ago…well, I'm drunk today and I'm seldom sober, handsome rover from town to town…" He trailed off and gazed out the window at the _Saharon_, making a quick decision.

Contacting the Cardassian ship on his personal monitor, he was directed to Gul Mosel's office.

"Can I help you, captain?" The Cardassian gave him his thin smile.

"Ms. O'Malley has just informed me that she will undergo the hypnosis treatment this afternoon. I felt it best that I be present," he paused a moment. "And to further good relations between our peoples, and in hopes of concluding this Romulan mystery, I am inviting your participation as well." There, he thought, it was said. Perhaps it was not the wisest decision, but it would also not be prudent to alienate the Gul.

"Of course, captain. I planned on transporting to your ship for a meeting with Ambassador Nugal this afternoon, this merely expedites my departure." Gul Mosel nodded.

"Very good," Picard said, stilted. "Deck eight, room 3402. Fourteen hundred hours."

"I shall be there. Mosel out." The screen darkened.

That went well, the captain thought. He gave his quarters another once-over before departing for the bridge, dismissing the knot of anxiety that seemed glued to his stomach. Finally, he hoped, they might soon get an answer to all of this.

Mosel sat back in his chair, skeptical. He wondered what had changed Deidre's mind. She had hardly seemed eager about the treatment the previous evening, but now…And what had she told Picard of their encounter in the corridor? Surely she was not pleased at his withdrawal, but at the time, it had been for the best. In the morning, his sober mind processed the events of the evening with mounting dread. His encounter with Deidre had been pleasant: his hasty departure had stemmed not from disinterest but from an overwhelming desire to shove her into her quarters and have her on the carpet. But that was to be expected. What disturbed him was his subsequent conversation with Father.

He had replayed their discussion in his mind all morning. Berating himself for his impetuous and rash words, he was torn between the urge to contact the elder Mosel and apologize, or to let the matter fester. He was right: he knew that Deidre and the Captain Picard were correct in their assessments and that the facts were incontrovertible; however, being right had little to do with it. Mosel knew the Detapa Council ran their own private agendas when dealing with the Federation, and he felt that Father expected Ellil to play his assigned role. But Mosel had taken Deidre's innocent and drunkenly babbled advice, and proved to Father that he was a man who made his own choices.

This is not going to end well, he thought. As Deidre was fond of saying: 'feck'.

Deidre decided, as she left Captain Picard's quarters, that the best way to beat a hangover was to deny the existence of one. She found her way to Ten Forward.

Guinan was behind the bar when she entered. Taking a seat, she waited for the strange, dark woman to approach.

"I didn't think I'd see you back here this soon," Guinan said, as she wiped the surface in front of Deidre's place. 

She shrugged. "Just something to ease the pain." She looked for a row bottles to peruse behind the bar and, finding none, she frowned. "Can you do a Baileys and coffee?"

"I think I can manage something close," Guinan said, nodding. She returned a moment later with a glass mug full of murky coffee. "Whipped cream?"

Deidre patted her stomach fondly. "Gotta watch my figure," she said, as Guinan put the drink in front of her. "Ta." She took a sip. "Mm, that's lovely, that is." She sat quietly for a moment, tapping her fingers against the glass. Guinan wiped glasses a short way down the bar, observing her quietly.

Deidre glanced around. Ten Forward was mostly empty this time of morning. A Starfleet officer in yellow uniform sat reviewing a data pad at the same table she had shared with Mosel the night before. The man sipped a cup of coffee (tea, maybe?), absorbed in his work. She had not expected him to look up, but suddenly his stare met hers and she turned away, embarrassed.

"Who's that?" she asked Guinan, gesturing behind her shoulder.

"Oh, that's Chief O'Brien," she replied, rubbing a particularly stubborn smudge on a wine glass. "He's usually in here about this time, reviewing his duty roster for the day. Always drinks Tarkalean tea."

"O'Brien? An Irishman?" Deidre looked over her shoulder and found the man staring at her backside. She smiled and gave him a small, self-conscious nod before turning around.

"I think so," Guinan said with her customary playful smile. "Looks like he's coming over here to say hello." She went back to polishing her glasses.

True enough, Deidre soon felt a presence at her left. She turned to the Chief as he appraised her.

"You must be the woman everyone has been talking about," he said, "I'm Miles O'Brien."

"And an Irish. I'm Deidre O'Malley. Dia dhuit!" She held out her hand and he shook it firmly.

"Dia is vuire dhuit." He cocked his head and smiled at the old saying. "I haven't heard that in years," he said, claiming a seat beside her. He set his data pad and drink on the bar.

"It's been a morning for that, I think." She swiveled her chair to she face him. "It's good to hear a familiar voice."

"Ha! Heard you were born in the 1970s," he said.

"Cocks n' balls, it was 1980. I'm not that old." They shared a laugh. "So, what do you do on the _Enterprise_, my friend?"

"I'm the Transporter Chief for the ship," he said, unconsciously puffing his chest out a bit.

"Oh yeah, that little machine that glitters you from place to place. I did it once, wasn't half bad, really."

"It's a bit more complicated than that," O'Brien scoffed, good-humoredly.

Deidre rolled her eyes. "I've been getting that a lot, lately," she said.

O'Brien glanced at the timepiece over the bar and scowled. "I have to go on duty in a minute," he said, "but I wanted to come over and introduce myself. And to say, my wife and I sometimes use a holodeck program I modeled after a pub in Limerick. You're welcome to join us some evening if you want the company, have a bit of 'craic'." He waggled his head a bit as he spoke and Deidre took an instant liking to him.

"Is maith liom un craic agus on ól! I'll see you there, thanks for the offer." They shook hands again and O'Brien departed, data pad in hand, shouting his thanks to Guinan as he walked out the door.

"It sounds like you're fitting in well," Guinan said. She had moved on to tea cups, massaging each one slowly and methodically, as if they were crystal.

"Everyone here is so _friendly_," she exclaimed, draining the last of her coffee. Guinan nodded her agreement. "All right," Deidre said, standing from her seat. "I'm off. We're square, right? I'm not used to this 'no money required' thing yet."

"We're square," Guinan said. "You have a good day. And just remember, tomorrow always comes." Guinan's dark eyes seeped into her as they looked at each other, and Deidre almost shivered.

Nodding, she went to the door. Whatever that means, she thought, and walked into the corridor.

Arriving at her quarters, she called for higher illumination ("computer, can you turn up the lights, just a bit?") and looked around. The place didn't look half bad. Cracker her neck, she kicked off her shoes and went into the bedroom. The bed was still neatly made, the pile of her replicated clothes crumpled in the middle. She grabbed the grey tank and shook out the wrinkles. She changed from her jeans and sweater into the tank and leggings from the night before. A little yoga would help her sort her thoughts out, she decided.

Arranging the furniture in the sitting room so there was ample space in the center (which involved shoving the dining table against the windows and the sofa almost to the bedroom door), she stood in the middle of the room and spread her arms.

Interlocking her fingers under her chin, she brought her elbows up with a deep inhale breath through her nose, held it for six counts, and then released it, mouth open, breathing out, head falling back to her neck. She felt the routine pose spread calm throughout her body as her breath pressed in and out. She repeated it, counting softly under her breath until the set was finished.

This whole situation was getting to be a bit ridiculous, she thought, as she stretched her arms over her head, bending gently side to side. She needn't really go through a summary of the events, suffice to say in the past seventy-two hours, she had gone from Belfast to a Cardassian ship, been tossed forward three hundred years in the future, healed from life-threatening injuries, snogged an alien, and managed to top it all off with a hangover. She breathed deeply through her nose and bent over backwards. Her reflection stared back at her from star-covered windows. Stretching deeper, she pulled herself up and over again, leaning down to her toes. Her forehead rested against her shin and she breathed down into her ankles.

And what did Ellil mean by rushing off so quickly? She could make an educated guess or two, thinking of other men she had dated, but aliens should be different, right? Still breathing deeply, she settled into another series of postures, lifting her spine back and up, stretching her legs in front of her and behind in their respective poses. By the time she was dangling between her spread legs, forehead pressed into the floor, the whole mess had her so confused that she would have thrown up her hands in disgust had she not been holding her heels in place.

And she was most definitely not looking forward to the hypnosis session with Counselor Troi. Whatever the truth may be, it frightened her to death. What if Jean-Luc was wrong and the Romulans had already finished experimenting with her when the _Enterprise_ happened along; what if they had simply tossed her out like garbage? She was simply not prepared to be told she had been an alien lab rat. The thought that she almost was had been frightening enough.

Limbered up, she put her forearms on the floor, balancing with her elbows and head, and slowly lifted her body away from the floor. As she transitioned, she brought her head up, staring at the door in front of her at the same time she brought her feet forward, inverting her back so the bottoms of her feet skimmed the top of her head in Scorpion Pose. The door chose that minute to chime.

"Feck." She gritted her teeth but was too far into the posture to come safely out so quickly. "Come in," she said hoarsely, struggling to maintain her balance now that her concentration was interrupted.

The door opened and Mosel paused in the doorway, though she could only see him from the knees down. He cleared his throat. "Did you _lose_ something down there?" His voice sounded incredulous and slightly concerned. He walked forward and bent at the waist, twisting his head so he could look at her face. He tried to stifle a laugh.

"Hold on," she said, and slowly, every so slowly, she lowered her body down and came out of the posture. "Ah," she rubbed her neck.

"Is this how humans amuse themselves, or are you engaging in some strange ritual?" he asked, helping her stand.

"It's called 'yoga'. Some humans use it to meditate and relax. I just like to see how far I can bend over 'till I kiss my own arse." She tossed him a glance and went to the bedroom. "I need a towel."

She emerged a second later, wiping her reddened face, and ordered a glass of water from the replicator. "Want anything?" Mosel shook his head. She grasped the glass and took a long gulp. "Can I help you?" she asked, slinging the towel over her shoulder and sauntering to the dining table. She leaned against it and sipped her water.

"I came to apologize for leaving so abruptly last night. It was rude of me," he said, becoming distinctly aware that her behavior toward him had shifted slightly. If she was friendly and boisterous the night before, today she was bordering on flirtatious. By Cardassian standards, at least. He felt the first inopportune stirrings of arousal.

"Well, that's just lovely of you," she said coldly. "Anything else?"

"I heard you're undergoing the hypnosis today. Captain Picard requested I attend. I wanted to inform you in person, before I surprised you."

Deidre nodded, gripping her glass tightly. "Yeah." She glanced down at the floor, searching for a reply, but she heard him move before she could formulate one. When she looked up, he stood mere centimeters from her.

"I truly am sorry about last night." He took her glass and set it on the table.

She studied his face: the grey skin, spoon-like indention in his forehead, the distinctive ridges running around his eyes. Mere days ago he was the most frightening thing she had ever seen; now, she wondered how far exactly those ridges went under that imposing uniform. The thought in itself frightened her. But only a little. What the hell, she thought. It wouldn't hurt.

"Apology accepted," she said, settling back on her hands. Mosel took the invitation and leaned forward, shoulders hunched predatorily. She glanced at the increasingly small gap between them and he followed her gaze. "You don't even know me," she said.

He put his hands on the tabletop at either side of her, cornering her, her butt pressed into the table. "What better way to make acquaintances?" he murmured, and pressed his mouth against hers.

An anxious thrill coursed down her spine, but her anticipation was greater and she returned the pressure. Her mouth opened on its own accord and he took the initiative. Deidre had to admit that his tongue felt, well, normal. Human-like, warm and wet. Some of her anxiety dissolved and she brought her arms to his shoulders. It seemed he had been waiting for a sign from her, as he immediately encircled her in his arms, dragging their bodies clumsily together.

Discovering that his neck ridges were too bulky for her to comfortably slip her arms around, she gripped his neck gently instead. He gasped at her touch and pulled slightly away. She looked at her hands, surprised.

"What, seriously?" She tightened her grip on his scales and his mouth slackened.

"Serious as Ferengi ears," he panted. "Don't stop." So she didn't.

A while later, they collapsed on her bed, limbs twisted languorously together. Deidre's skin was damp with perspiration. She ran her finger over Ellil's chest. "You were working pretty hard, she said, still mildly breathless. "Don't you sweat?"

He held her hand against the larger cavity on his ribcage. "No," he said, intertwining their fingers.

She spooned into him. "You have some mighty impressive muscle control down there," she said, wiggling her butt against his groin to indicate where she meant.

"Secondary internal muscular structure," he murmured, his lips nestled in her hair alongside her ear. "It evolved to prevent accidental entrapment in the female pelvic ridges. But only on Cardassians, of course." He kissed the soft skin behind her ear.

"Ew," she squirmed. "You mean, you can get stuck in a woman—a Cardassian—and you use your secondary muscles to…work yourself loose?"

"That's its primary function. Although," he chuckled, "you seemed to enjoy the jouncing." He almost hissed the last word.

"You have no idea," she said. "Actually, it was kind of like riding one of those mechanical bulls they have at pubs." She shivered at the slight ache in her groin.

He lifted his head and glared down at her. "Pardon?"

"Kidding!" she said. Mostly. "Shit!" She sat up hurriedly. "What time is it? Computer!"

The disembodied voice responded, "Ship time is currently thirteen thirty-two hours."

"Feck," she said, as they both scrambled from the bed. "The appointment!"

Deidre dashed into the bathroom and Mosel heard the sound of water running. A wet rag was thrown at him through the door. "Use this," she said. "I'm showering."

A short time later, their clothing more or less assembled, they came together at the door of her quarters.

"Ready?" Mosel said, clasping his breast plate at the shoulder.

"Unfortunately." She twisted her damp hair at the nape and pinned it.

He pulled her into a kiss. "You look like you're ready to conquer the world," he said. And she did, he thought, despite her sudden anxious flustering.

She pulled back and looked him in the eye. He was such strange creature, she thought, but his eyes were kind, in that moment. She squeezed his hand. Ready to conquer the world, indeed. Sadly, she said, "Or I could be helping mine to fall apart."

"It's your choice," he said, and they departed.


	11. Chapter 11

Timelines: Chapter Eleven (Wherein we finally get some answers!)

"Am I doing the right thing?" Deidre and Ellil stood outside the door to Counselor Troi's office. Gripped by a sudden dread, she had grabbed his wrist just as they were about to enter and held him back. "Am I?" She turned to him.

Mosel considered her. Though her face was ashen, her lips were set in a thin, determined line. She eyed the door, unyielding. "Do you want to know why you've been brought here?" She nodded. He paused for a moment. "Are you committed to exploring the darkest, most clandestine depths of your subconscious mind, regardless of the damage such knowledge might cause?" As a Cardassian, Mosel was intimately familiar with the intricacies of the mind, having been subjected to the rigorous mind-discipline programs that were required for all Cardassian children. The expanses of his mind often terrified him, but his very existence was now devoted to such pursuits, despite his fear. Mosel was intimately aware of her distress but he did not want to take her into his protective arms or pull her away from the door, away from her fear. He admired (and, he surprised himself, respected) the courage with which she faced her decision, regardless of what was discovered during this session.

Nodding again, Deidre finally looked at him. "I'm ready," was all she said. Together, they entered the room.

Captain Picard and Counselor Troi awaited them. Dr. Crusher hovered over the sofa, tricorder in hand. "I want to monitor your progress," she said in explanation. "I'm not confident that your body should be allowed to suffer further stress after so recent an ordeal. However," and she glanced ruefully at Picard, "I have been told that it is for the best. But if it gets out of hand…"

Picard joined the conversation, agreeing that Dr. Crusher would be allowed medical override if the situation became unstable. "Though," he said, "I find that unlikely." Crusher merely rolled her eyes (but only after the captain looked away).

Counselor Troi indicated to the couch. "Please, sit down," she said to Deidre. "Gul Mosel." She nodded and he claimed a seat next to Deidre on the couch, leaving enough space between them for decency.

"I'm going to give you a mild sedative," Crusher said, approaching with a hyperspray. "It should make the process a little easier."

"All right," Deidre said, as Crusher pressed the tip against her neck. Having administered the drug, she perched on the couch, tricorder at the ready. Picard leaned forward slightly in his chair in anticipation.

"Now, Deidre," Troi began. "I want you to relax. Focus on your breathing. That's right, in and out, deeply. Relax your body. Listen to the sound of my voice. I want you to follow it as you focus on a spot in front of you. That's good. Now, draw that focus in, let your focus turn to the awareness of your mind, where that awareness is coming from. Very good, relax. And breathe."

Mosel watched, captivated, and he felt his own breath rhythmically change. His shoulders relaxed and the tension in his muscles eased. He saw Deidre's eyes close and her chin drop lower, as Deanna instructed.

"Now," Troi continued, as she observed her patient's condition. "I want us to return to that day on the roof, when you were brought here. What do you see?"

"The same roof," Deidre replied, her voice slowly monotone, a tone Mosel did not recognize. It was strangely eerie. "It's the same. There's nothing."

"Let's go back farther," Deanna said. "Why were you on the roof?"

"I don't know. I just was." Her voice deepened. "It hurts to be here."

"Why does it hurt, Deidre?"

"I don't know. I want to get off the roof."

"All right. Where were you before you were on the roof?"

"My flat."

"Good, go back there," Deanna encouraged. She kept her voice even and slow, guiding Deidre backwards through her memories.

"I'm there. But it's not that day. Not the day I came here."

"What day is it?"

"The day Domhnall and Brían came over. They came over to talk with me. It was something important."

"Good, tell me more about that. What did they say?"

Deidre floated in her memories, the sound of Deanna's voice soothing her, pulling her backwards toward remembrance. The image of her apartment filled her mind: the blue door leading in, the small kitchenette, the sofa pushed too near her television. Domhnall and Brían sprawled in front of the TV, eating her ice cream while their wolfhounds, Brian (a family joke, Deidre always said to strangers. "My brother never knows if we're calling for the dog or yelling at him") and Boruma chewed on her sneakers.

Deidre spoke her memories aloud to the others as they came to her.

Deidre entered the apartment and dropped her grocery sack on the kitchen counter. She spied the tops of the twin's light brown heads over the sofa, their hair a shade darker than her own blond. "Let yourselves in again, ay?" she called into the living room, struggling to be heard over the twin's John Wayne film.

"Yeah, hope you don't mind." Brían twisted his head around. "We were in the area." His full lips grinned: a trait that the three siblings shared, along with their hazy grey eyes.

"You better not eat all my feckin' ice cream," she said, coming to the couch. Tossing herself over the edge of the sofa, she landed with an ungainly "oof" on their laps. Settling her feet on Brían's legs and her head on Domhnall's thigh, she reached for the Neapolitan container.

"Relax," Domhnall scolded. "We saved you the chocolate." He dangled the spoon over her forehead and it dripped dark goop on her brow.

"Arse," she said, grabbing the spoon from him and simultaneously wiping her brow.

"Sh!" Brían hissed. "This is the best part."

The siblings focused on the tiny screen just as John Wayne appeared in his Davy Crockett hat. "Republic," his screen image said, and the twins, along with Deidre, intoned it with him. "I like that sound of the word." The siblings recited the lines with Davy Crockett, having memorized them in over twenty years of viewing. The twins loved John Wayne and enjoyed teasing Deidre, reminding her of the crush she had on the American legend during all of primary school.

"Some words can give you a feeling that makes your heart warm," they continued. "Republic is one of those words."

"Yeah," Domhnall said as they finished, "I know what word makes my heart warm. Angelina Jolie's pus—."

Deidre's scream interrupted him. "Agh! You're feckin' _sick_."

Brían hooted from his end of the couch. "I'd love to get me some of that!"

"All right, shut it, the both of you's." Deidre leaned forward and grabbed the remote. "That's enough of this shite."

"Hey, we were watching that!" The twins yelped in unison.

"You've only seen it a hundred times," she snapped. "Now, whatch you come around here for?"

Domhnall looked offended. "Can't we come visit our baby sister?" Deidre raised her eyebrows and innocently licked the ice cream spoon.

Brían tickled the bottom of her feet and she kicked him. "We need to borrow your car," he confessed. "We have to go away for a little while."

"What, again?" Deidre sat up, the ice cream forgotten. "What did you amadáns do this time?"

Domhnall got his 'guilt look', the one his mother looked for whenever the twins would sneak out after curfew. "We roughed up one of Matt Malloy's guys," he said. "He came to collect, but we didn't have it." He looked to Brían for support.

"Aye, we borrowed a little money for the races last month."

"Well, how bad is the guy? The one you roughed up?" Deidre glared first at Domhnall, then Brían, as the 'guilt look' crept across his face as well. "That bad?" She gasped.

"Well," Domhnall stalled.

"He won't be waken' up to find out," Brían said.

She shook her head. "Jaysus. You've gotten yourselves into a mess this time." She rose from the couch and stalked into the kitchen.

"Now, don't be mad," Domhnall said, as the twins followed. "We'll take care of it, get the money back."

Brían nodded. "Once we give him the money, it'll be fine," he said.

Deidre paused at the kitchen counter. "How much?"

"Ten thousand," Domhnall muttered.

She buried her head in her hand. "Why?" She shook her head, not expecting an answer. "All right, you can take the car." She tossed Brían the keys off the counter. "When will you be back?"

Brían shook his head, his shaggy hair falling over his eyes. "As soon as we have the money."

"And there's one more thing," Domhnall said. "Can you watch the dogs?" They all looked over at the hounds as they slept in the too-small-space in front of the television.

"Sure," she grumbled. "And I'll make you something to eat to take with you."

Brían went to the tiny refrigerator and pulled out a packet of roast beef. He waggled his eyebrows and tossed it to her. "You make the best sandwiches," he said.

"Yeah, you know," Domhnall said, twisting off a bite of the sandwich meat and earning a smack on the hand in reply, "B. and I were talking, and we think it might be best for you to go down to your mate's house for a while. Doesn't Mary have an extra bedroom?"

"More like a closet," she said, buttering the bread as she knew they liked it. "You think it's that bad?"

"Malloy's not happy, you know how he gets."

"Don't feckin' remind me, I dated the bastard for a year." She slapped the bread slices angrily together, hunks of beef hanging from the edges. "He'd sooner I drown in the Lagáin than have me seeing another guy." She piled the sandwiches, about half a dozen, and stuck them in a plastic bag. "Take some crisps with you, too. They're in the cupboard."

Domhnall, being closest, reached in and pulled out a family-sized bag. He stuffed them in a grocery sack along with the sandwiches. "I guess we'd better be going," he said. The three siblings looked at each other. It was not the first time they had said goodbye in such a way, but the same heartache pulled at each of them. They came together in a motley hug, the twins a few inches taller than Deidre. She rested her head between their slender, tattooed necks and breathed in their mingled scent.

"I love you's," she murmured.

"Aye," Brían said.

Domhnall said, "We love you." They both kissed the top of her head.

She led them to the door. "God be with you, and take care of yourselves." She touched each of their cheeks as they passed.

"We'll be back in a few days." Domhnall winked at her, and the twins scuttled out the door, clutching their goody sack.

She looked mournfully after them and shut the door as they disappeared down the stairs. Brían already had a sandwich in his mouth.

She went to the dogs and scratched Boruma on his shaggy, grey head. The hound glanced blearily up and sighed. Glancing around her apartment, she made a mental note to tidy up before leaving for Mary's.

A sudden roar sounded outside her window. She whipped her head around, instantly recognizing the noise. Her heart skipped a painful beat before she hurled herself out the door and down the stairs.

Deidre's narrative suddenly paused. Mosel and the others leaned forward, breath bated. Her eyelids fluttered and her breathing halted. She released a blood-curdling scream.

"No!" Her body pitched itself violently forward, Mosel catching her centimeters before she crashed into the coffee table. His eyes widened as he restrained her, her arms flailing.

"Domhnall, Brían," she screamed, "get out of the car! Oh my God, get out of the car!" Her chest heaved and her arms thrashed against Mosel's grip. Beverly had recoiled at the onslaught, but she scanned her now with the tricorder, noting her elevated heart rate and blood pressure.

"We have to stop this!" Crusher insisted, but was overshadowed by Deidre's screams.

"They're burning," she sobbed, "oh God, they're burning in the car. Domhnall, get out!" She waved her hands suddenly in front of her face, as if the car had exploded again in front of her. She cried out in pain, lost too deeply in the memory for Deanna to retrieve her, no matter how many times the counselor insisted she focus on her voice. Mosel struggled to contain her body as it heaved against the couch, her limbs taut and mouth stretched in a never-ending scream. "They're burning, they're burning!"

"Counselor!" Picard yelled. "Stop this at once!" He jumped from the chair.

"No, captain!" Mosel insisted, as Deidre wailed. "You must let her finish!"

"This has gone far enough," Picard roared, disgusted with Mosel's insensitivity.

Mosel scowled at him, still holding the shuddering body. "She chose to remember. Respect her wishes and let her do so! She made the choice." Mosel nearly bared his teeth at him, but the words seemed to have their effect. Picard did not resume his seat, but he restrained Dr. Crusher from giving her another sedative.

Beverly recoiled again, turning on Picard. "But this is insane, captain," she snapped. "She could cause herself physical damage!"

"But she needs to remember," he said, deeply uncomfortable with Mosel's speech but recognizing its truth. "She knew the consequences and made her decision." Beverly threw up her hands, but followed her orders.

Deidre, meanwhile, had replaced the scream with a bone-chilling wail. Bent over at the waist, she sobbed into her knees, Mosel's arm still cinched between her stomach and thighs. "The church, the church in the dream," she sobbed. "It was their coffins! Malloy rigged the car and they took it instead of me. It should have been me!" She screamed again and pitched herself against Mosel's grip. "It should have been me!" He wrestled her, with difficulty, back against the couch, his teeth gritted with the effort. He braced his feet against the floor as she lashed out.

Picard turned to Deanna. "Quickly!" he said. "Ask her what happened next, get her out of this."

Troi nodded, her own heart pounding, overwhelmed with the waves of intensity bombarding her. Deanna felt as if she had just witnessed the explosion and could feel the heat on her face, the ragged shock of grief. "Deidre! Deidre, listen to me," she urged, leaning forward and grasping the woman's shoulders. "What happened next? Why were you on the roof that day?"

Deidre gasped. "The roof." Her shoulders went rigid for a moment and Mosel feared she would suffer another outbreak. But her body went suddenly limp, as if the memory had suddenly become too much, and she fell forward, held up only by his arm.

"After the funeral," she breathed, "I came home. I changed my clothes and turned on the TV." She went silent. Deanna motioned the others to not interfere. Soon, she resumed. "John Wayne was talking about the Republic, so I went up to the roof." Her eyelids flared open, staring into Deanna's surprised gaze. "I went up to the roof and I looked around," she said, her voice shaking, beginning to regain its clarity as she pulled herself out of the hypnosis. "I saw the planter bed they helped me build, heard sirens in the distance. I went to the edge." She paused, her eyes welling with tears. She gasped, raggedly, its haggard draw startling her companions. "I jumped off. I died. I hit the street and I died." Her head turned loosely around, almost flopping on her shoulders. She looked into Mosel's stunned eyes. "And then I saw your face." Her head dropped onto his shoulder as darkness took her.

The group sat in horrified silence. "Oh my God," Beverly finally murmured. "Oh my God."

Mosel, with Deanna's help, set Deidre's limp body gently on the sofa. "So the Romulans took her because she died?" His tone implied that the notion was ridiculous, even as he frowned.

"No," Picard said, his own voice returning. "Because she was alone." His mind started putting the pieces together, the puzzle fitting almost perfectly into place. "She mentioned that her parents were dead. There would be no one to miss her after her brothers died. No missing persons report filed, friends assuming she consoled her grief in private. Alone." He shook his head, astounded at how cleverly this all fit. "The Romulans must have studied this, studied our records, that's why we can't find anything about her, or her family. It's all been arranged perfectly. The only question is: how many others have they done this to? How many people from our history have they abducted for their experiments? And for what?" It was the last missing piece of the puzzle. What were they planning? This had larger implications than he had first assumed, and the thought sickened him. "I must contact Starfleet," he said. "Will she be all right, doctor?"

"Yes, sir," Crusher said. "I'm going to administer another sedative and put her straight to bed. She should be in her quarters. I'm afraid the atmosphere in sickbay would be deleterious. I would like to stay with her, but I have a conference with Starfleet medical this afternoon. Deanna, could you…" But as Crusher looked down at Troi, who still crouched next to the couch, she found her friend with an arm curled under her head, a tear trickling down her cheek. "Deanna," Beverly murmured, "are you all right?" She knelt and put her hand on the Deanna's back.

Troi sniffed and wiped her cheek. "This poor woman," she said. "I can feel the grief radiating off her in waves, even while she's sleeping. She's dreaming of them." She turned to Picard. "I'm sorry sir, but I don't think I'll be able to give you a briefing on her condition until tomorrow. She suppressed this memory, but now it's overwhelming her. I'll be able to tell you more after her shock has dissipated."

"Yes," Picard said sympathetically. "Of course, counselor. Dr. Crusher, should you—."

"I'll stay with Deidre this evening, captain," Mosel interrupted. He rose from the couch and straightened his uniform. The incident had left him rattled, but he pushed the feelings to the back of his mind. "I'll need return to the _Saharon_ briefly to give my report to Central Command, but I will be back before Dr. Crusher's conference."

Beverly looked at Picard in protest, but to her surprise, the captain agreed. She threw up her hands again. "All right," she said grumpily. Tapping her comm. badge, she alerted Transporter Room 3 that she needed two beamed to room 1010, deck ten. She put her hand under Deidre's head and they dematerialized.

Mosel watched them depart and then nodded to the captain. "We will speak later," he said, and strode from the room. Picard turned to Deanna, who had risen to her feet and was smoothing out her skirt.

"Will she be all right, counselor?" Picard asked, concerned.

Deanna sighed. "I think so, captain," she said wearily. "With time. Her mind kept this memory from her, perhaps to shelter her against the shock when she was brought to the future." Wiping her cheeks one last time, she looked at Picard through blurry eyes. "What are you going to tell Starfleet?"

Picard considered a moment. "That we have a very big problem on our hands." And that, he thought, was the greatest understatement of all.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry, I noticed a few glaring errors in this chapter, text-wise, so I corrected them and am reposting this. Apologies.

Timelines: Chapter Twelve

"_An rud nach leigheasann im ná uisce beatha níl aon leigheas air." [What butter or whiskey doesn't cure, cannot be cured.]_

--Irish Proverb

"Are you implying, captain, that the Romulans have gained access to our historical databases?"

Picard had contacted Admiral Thompson immediately after the traumatic hypnosis, and from all indications, Thompson was severely distressed.

"Yes, sir," Picard said. "I think it's evident that they have engaged in some form of espionage, and have been using ancestral humans for their experiments. What's even more disturbing is their evident grasp of time travel technology!"

"I agree," Thompson sighed. "But you have no substantial evidence that this is not an isolated incident."

"I should think it would be obvious, Admiral." Picard had to restrain himself, narrowly keeping his voice within acceptable tones. "The circumstances are too convenient, and too sophisticated, for it to be merely a random incident.

"I understand that, captain, but I'm not willing to risk an incident with the Romulans! I cannot take this to Starfleet without more evidence."

Ah, Picard thought, at last the truth emerges.

Thompson's screen image frowned. "When the Romulans return—and I take it that you still think they will—you may proceed as before. I'll say this confidentially, captain, and off-the-record, but we need to know what they're planning. I share your concerns. But Jean-Luc," Thompson said sternly. "It must be discreet. The Federation, as you well know, is in no condition to support a sustained conflict, whether it be with the Cardassians or the Romulans! We had this conversation last year when you apprehended Benjamin Maxwell."

Picard remembered it well. Unfortunately, he feared circumstances had taken a dire turn, and waiting might not be so beneficial in the future. However, "Yes sir." He gritted his teeth. "Picard out."

As the monitor darkened, he cursed Starfleet's hesitation to deal with the matter. Very well, he thought irritably, if they were hampered by their diplomatic relations (which he understood, despite the travesty of such a situation), then the _Enterprise_ was on its own.

He certainly did not count on Cardassian support. Their relationship with the Romulan Empire, though never completely friendly, was at least cordial. He would have to gather the hard evidence on his own. He sighed wearily (he seemed to be doing that a lot, lately).

The one thing Picard feared was the indifference Starfleet showed toward her situation. Let them debate policy on their own time—sooner or later they would come to terms with the Romulans (he rather hoped it was sooner). However, in dealing with the woman, it certainly did not promise a liberated future for her once she arrived on earth. She was likely to be poked, prodded, and interviewed until the scientists had what they needed. Theoretically, that could take years. Hell, he thought, she might be better off with the Cardassian, then he dismissed the thought. He allowed Mosel to associate with her because, even after her immediate arrival (excepting her initial fright), she seemed most comfortable with him.

Rising from his desk, he went to the replicator. "Earl Grey. Hot." Taking a sip, he hoped that the Gul continued to show her such consideration in the future, as she would surely need it. And, he thought, borrowing an ancient Earth adage: he hoped Starfleet would get its head out of its metaphorical ass before it was too late for everyone.

Mosel strode into his office, his mind meticulously reviewing the recent events. It had all come to a head so quickly, and yet, there were still so many unanswered questions! The message indicator flashed on his monitor, but he ignored it. Instead, he wrote a draft to both the Detapa Council and Central Command, giving them much the same report that Picard had given to Starfleet, though he did not know it.

Thankfully, he thought, Glinn Tedre was managing the details of the conference. Mosel's only duty in that regard was reviewing Tedre's daily reports and having the occasional meeting with Nugal. At the moment, however, he only had two primary concerns: first was the eventual arrival of the Romulan vessel and their agenda, be it abduction (unlikely), or observance. He agreed with Picard's assessment that their withdrawal was likely to avoid detection (which, obviously, had not worked in their favor) and to confer with their superiors. If Picard was right (and Mosel suspected that he was), the Romulans would soon return to engage in damage control and possibly to observe the conference (a purely lucky find, on the part of the Romulans).

Mosel's other primary concern was the state of the young woman with whom he had very recently been intimate; though it surprised him, her condition troubled him greatly. The reasons were simple, he found, as he mulled over the past few days. Put two lonely people together and they might find some comfort. And Mosel admitted, reluctantly, that he had been lonely. Commanding the _Saharon_ had not presented the prestige and adventure he had believed it would. And the stress, he found, was enormous. Balancing the mutually exclusive agendas of Central Command, the Detapa Council, his Father, and now his own was a perilous responsibility, one he discovered he was ill-prepared to manage.

He rubbed his palm over his face, exhausted. Reviewing his reports briefly on the monitor, he sent both off to their respective offices. And they can have it, he thought ruefully. Standing up and stretching, he decided to pack a few things in a satchel to bring with him to the _Enterprise_, toiletries and a change of clothes, just in case. He would leave Glinn Tedre in command; make the young man earn his rank, just as Gul Mosel had, the thought dryly. (And hopefully have a better time of it.)

Deidre had awakened briefly after she and Dr. Crusher arrived in her quarters, alert enough to stumble into the bedroom. She had looked blankly around, unsure of what she should do, and it was Beverly who finally urged her to sleep. She crumpled on the bed and lay on top of the covers, fully clothed. Her eyelids fluttered and finally closed.

Beverly breathed a sigh of relief. All this for nothing, she thought. They still had not uncovered any means of returning her, nor had they discovered what her purpose was here to begin with.

Deidre had been wrong about one thing, however, Beverly thought as she mentally reviewed the injuries she treated upon Deidre's arrival. The only damage she had sustained came from her exposure to open space; the Romulans must have taken her a fraction of a second before she hit the pavement. It was not surprising that Deidre had misinterpreted the event. Beverly was more interested in the Romulans' strategy. Had it been intentional, or merely someone 'jumping the gun'? If they had waited until she had struck ground, that infinitesimal amount of time could have made all the difference. The _Enterprise_ would not have interfered, and Deidre would be now on a Romulan ship, her injuries healed, undergoing a nefarious Romulan experiment. And the _Enterprise_ would have remained unaware of the entire situation. What twists of fate mere seconds can bring, she reflected. She suddenly felt terribly insignificant next to the great wheel of fate.

With a shiver, she glanced at her timepiece. The time was quickly running out for her to make her scheduled appointment with Starfleet Medical. She was under the impression that Cardassians made a point to be punctual, but Mosel certainly was not living up to those expectations. Just as she was about to contact her nurse to forward her apologies to Starfleet, the door chimed and Gul Mosel stalked in.

"My sincerest apologies for the delay," he said, his appearance altering the quiet calm that had settled over the room. Dr. Crusher found herself inexplicably nervous—and more than a bit irritated—as she realized she was alone with him.

"Well, I'll be off then," she said, ironing out the wrinkles in her voice with occupational professionalism. "She's resting in the bedroom." Crusher watched Mosel set his small bag at the edge of the sofa and she chose not to comment on its appearance. She sincerely hoped his visit would not last long enough to require amenities. "If her condition alters, contact me in sickbay. Or if you need anything," she said, as an afterthought. She departed quickly.

Silence descended on the room. Mosel glanced around, suddenly unsure. He went to the bedroom door and peered into the darkness. Deidre's back was turned, her shoulders rising and falling in even measure. He watched her sleep for a moment, having never observed a human during a full circadian rhythm. That was the scientific part of his brain's interest, of course, he reasoned, but on a personal level, he found watching her sleep unexpectedly meditative.

The door chime sounded at that moment. Puzzled (he certainly was not expecting visitors), he went to the door and allowed it to open. Guinan awaited him, clutching a bottle in her hand.

Seemingly unruffled by his presence in Deidre's quarters, she stepped forward and greeted him casually.

"Is Deidre in?" She proffered the bottle "I found this in my storeroom and thought she might appreciate it."

"She is indisposed at the moment," Mosel said, still perplexed. "I'm afraid she's had a difficult afternoon."

Guinan nodded sagely. "Ah, I thought as much. It's good I dropped by. Give her this." She handed him the bottle. "And remind her, from me, that tomorrow will always come."

"Yes, of course." He was beginning to understand, though the woman's words mystified him. Mosel glanced at green-tinted glass bottle. It was obviously liquor of some kind.

Guinan wished him well and departed. Mosel retreated into the room, eyeing the bottle. The label, which had yellowed and was peeling at the corners, was written in human alphabet. W-H-I-S-K-E-Y. The symbols meant nothing to him. He put the bottle on the dining table (which he pulled back into place after Deidre had arranged it earlier in the morning and likewise with the couch). Taking a data pad out of his satchel, he reclined on the divan and perused Tedre's ship reports.

In the bedroom, unbeknownst to both Dr. Crusher and Mosel, Deidre stared, open-eyed, at the wall across from the bed. She had let Beverly tuck her in, but even through her haze she had refused the sedative the good doctor offered. She had listened to Dr. Crusher pace in the adjacent room, and then the door chime. Mosel had arrived, his voice a comforting baritone seeping through the edge of her fog. They spoke for a few moments, though she was barely aware of what was said. It passed over her in a dull roar.

She stared forward, eyes unfocused in the dim light. It felt like the inner walls of her body were crumbling toward her center, dragging her rational mind into a pit of grief. The ache radiated out of her core. She found she did not possess the strength to stir, though she felt the shadowy room closing in on her.

After Dr. Crusher departed, she was aware of footsteps approaching the door. Mosel hovered there and she felt his gaze pass over her. He lingered until the door chime called him away. The timbre of muffled voices followed, then the sound of the door sliding shut again.

Still, her body refused to move. She wanted to flee the darkened room, escape into the welcoming din of activity onboard the ship. She wanted to smoke, to drink, to forget. She wanted the world to pass her by; until it spun so fast she became a blur. How could she have been so stupid? She should have let the dream continue for the rest of ever, she thought, slowly, bitterly, her mind stilted; she should have let her brothers' deaths continue to lurk only in the darkest recesses of her mind.

Her thoughts came quicker, her mind slowly regaining its hold. Hatred seeped from her pores, her disgust at her inability to prevent their fate. The days after the accident revived themselves in her memory and she remembered the police description of the accident. Malloy had only set a small charge, meant to scare her, and goad the twins into paying Malloy his money. But a faulty wire in her car had triggered a deadly reaction and the car was incinerated in seconds, Domhnall and Brían's bodies quickly burned to ash. As Deidre watched. And now the scene was seared into her memory, recalling itself over and over, until she feared she would go mad. She needed to get off the bed, she needed to get out of herself, escape her mind.

Mentally she clambered, clumsily, out of the pulsing wave of memory. But present, always, was the thin edge overlooking her anguish. She railed against it, fearful that she would tumble into the pit and let the ache, the deepest hatred of herself, overcome her. Although she had no way of knowing it at the time (as she lay semi-comatose in her bed), she would continue to walk that fragile line for the rest of her short life.

She blinked slowly, once, twice, fighting her way out of the fog clouding her mind. Finally, she became aware of the wall in front of her. The rustling in the other room had ceased. She forced her body off the bed, stumbling a bit on her shaky legs. She walked, hesitantly, into the living room.

Ellil rested on the sofa, his feet propped on pillows he had piled on the floor. His eyes were closed, his head nodding to the side. In his hands lay a data pad, forgotten. Approaching with soft footsteps, she took the data pad and put it aside. His eyes opened in that second, as the weight of it disappeared.

"You're awake," he said drowsily. She nodded once, slowly. He studied her face. No longer bright and avid, her eyes were lackluster, her cheeks ashen and peaked. He started to get up, but she put her hand on his shoulder.

Crawling over his legs, which were still outstretched, she settled on the couch next to him. Tucking in her knees, she curled into his shoulder. Surprised, he raised his arm and she leaned into his side. He wrapped his arm around her and they lingered there, for how long he could not determine. Her body was warm against his, and he breathed in the scent of her hair.

Finally, she stirred and looked up at him. "My brothers are dead." She swallowed, heavily, as if suppressing a dark thought. "But I'm alive." Though by rights, she thought again, I shouldn't be. She let the chill pass over her.

"Yes," he said, hesitant. "I suppose that means you'll be staying with us." He saw the ghost of a smile pass her lips.

"Aye," she said. "I suppose it does." He kissed her forehead.

Remembering suddenly, he said, "Guinan stopped in. She brought you a gift. It's on the table."

Glancing over her shoulder, she spied the bottle. She stood and went slowly to the table, Ellil following.

"Ah," she said, studying the label. "Irish whiskey. And it's old too, look." She held out the bottle and pointed to a set of what he assumed were numbers. "2132. That's about one-hundred-fifty years after I was born."

He admired the bottle from afar. "It's still so strange to think about. You're much older than I am!" He hoped she appreciated his levity, despite her grim expression. Not that he expected her to smile, of course, but she nodded to show that she understood.

"Well," she said and examined the wax sealant. "Let's have us a short." She nodded to the replicator. "Can you get some glasses?" Just as she cracked the seal, the door chime ringed. "Jaysus," she groaned. "I get more visitors than a pub on St. Paddy's Day. Enter!"

The door opened to reveal Captain Picard. He crossed into the living space and glanced at surprise at Deidre. "I hadn't expected you to be awake," he said. "I wanted to make sure you were well." He glanced at Mosel.

"Well enough, Jean-Luc," she said wearily. "Guinan brought this by." She held up the bottle.

"Ah yes," he nodded in recognition. "She has quite a collection." Guinan had shared many a bottle with him on occasion. A greater or truer friend he had never found.

"It was very kind of her." She motioned to Mosel, who observed their conversation quietly from the replicator. "We were about to open it. Ellil, three glasses, please. Will you have a drink with us, sir? Irish tradition, seeing as this is becoming a bit of a wake."

Picard bowed slightly. "Of course."

Mosel approached with the glasses, three short, round cylinders—functional, he thought, though he had little idea of how humans served whiskey—and set them on the table. Deidre popped the cap and drew the rim under her nose, inhaling the aged scent. It called to mind memories that ran rich and deep, scenes of happier days, of family. She let them fill her mind and embrace her. It was too soon to begin the healing process, she knew, but the smell of the whiskey, and all that it entailed, assured her that the healing would come. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not the day after that, but one day she would begin to piece herself back together again. This was just one day out of many, and her friends were here with her.

She brought the bottle down and poured three even, tawny shots into each of the glasses. The gentlemen selected theirs and she raised hers in the air, vaguely seeing the reflection of stars from the window. "To Domhnall and to Brían." Her voice shook and her eyes misted over, but she breathed and settled it. "You've made it home before me, boys, and God will keep you 'till I get there." She closed her eyes briefly, enduring the dull tide of grief that washed against her eyelids. "Never were there better brothers. I love ye, lads. Dia dhuit." She brought the glass to her lips and swallowed, letting the burn press against her tongue and throat as she drank until the glass was gone.

"May they rest," Picard said, raising his glass briefly in the air. He drank, though not as deeply as she.

Mosel, unsure of the protocol of a wake but understanding the sentiment, toasted the air as Picard had. As the liquor passed over his tongue, he struggled not to spit. However much it stung and watered his eyes, he drank until the glass emptied. Picard finished his glass in his second swig as Mosel set his glass down. Deidre still held her glass, eyes lingering into its empty expanse. Finally, she set it down and poured them another round.

Sipping the whiskey this time, she observed the two men before her. Jean-Luc's familiar features, familiar in the human sense, at least: his balding head, his kind but stern bright eyes; he was quickly becoming dear to her. And then there was Ellil. He stood in the dim lighting, broad shoulders framed by the dark, star studded window, eyeing his second glass with some trepidation. His presence, she felt, was a God-send, and even if she was thankful of nothing else during this long trial, the knowledge that he would drink with her now (despite his slightly puckered cheeks) gave her hope. He too, was endearing himself to her, though he could hardly know it.

"Well, I think we need a song," she said. She finished her second glass. "Jean-Luc, do you know 'Loch Lomond'?"

"I do," he nodded. Following in the tradition, although he had never been to a Catholic wake and did not relish public singing, he also finished his glass and set it aside.

Deidre settled herself and began, quietly at first, her voice gathering strength from the familiar melody. "Oh, ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road," she sang, in her gentle tenor, and Jean-Luc joined in his brass. "And I'll be in Scotland afore ye. But me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond."

Mosel felt as if he had been removed from the Enterprise and placed in an ancient Earth ritual as the singers' voices mingled together in a cocoon of song. He was unfamiliar with the tune and the lyrics; Cardassians did not sing at funerals. However, it seemed heartfelt: a tear ran down Deidre's cheek, though her voice was strong. The translator failed with a few of the ancient, dialectic words, but he managed to comprehend.

"But the broken heart it kens, nae second spring again," they intoned, mouths hot with liquor and song, "though the waeful may cease frae their greeting. Oh, ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road. And I'll be in Scotland afore ye. But me and my true love will never meet again, on the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond." The tune drew out, lifting them from their motley group as each let the melody bring them their own peace, calming their nerves after the ragged tremors of the day.

The evening drew on in much the same manner, one of them refilling the glasses while the others passed the time in song. Picard dredged the lyrics from 'Raglan Road' from his memory ("Yet I walked along the enchanted way, and I said let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day…"); and Deidre sang what he could not remember:

"Oh, I loved too much, and such by such is happiness thrown away…That I have loved not as I should…"

Mosel surprised himself by singing a tune from old Hebitia, the words he thought long forgotten; but they suddenly pressed at his mind and he opened his lungs in song. Picard was hardly surprised, when the bottle was nigh on finished, that Mosel drew Deidre into his arms and kissed her brow tenderly. In his alcohol-glazed mind, he was glad that the Cardassian could do what he was not permitted to do himself. Nor was Jean-Luc surprised when she returned Mosel's affection later in the evening (the bottle long finished), by wrapping her arm around the Cardassian's waist and leaning her head against his shoulder.

"That I had loved, not as I should, a creature made of clay," Picard sang, watching the pair, his voice lifting above Deidre's soft tones, "for when the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day."


	13. Chapter 13

Long A/N: Still working on that weird formatting issue I mentioned a few chapters back. Btw, as I was writing this, I had the inspiration to use a line from an under-budget movie I watched a while back: "So Far from Home." (If you recognize the title, don't laugh. It was on TV and I am a history student, after all. If it's any consolation, their costumes were authentic—and one shirt was 150 years old!) If you can find the line I borrowed from that movie, double kudos to you.

And double, triple thanks to my lone reviewer, who really outdid herself! Muchas gracias, mi amiga—you made my day!

Timelines: Chapter Thirteen

They received the call an hour before dawn (or whatever constituted 'dawn' on a starship). Ellil slept with Deidre that night. At first, he had made a pallet on the couch, but she pulled him back to the bedroom with a single glance. He had wrapped himself in the bedcovers to ward off the chill (human ships were always so uncomfortable, he grumbled), and she rested with her arms wrapped around him. Her eyes remained wide and open during the night, staring vividly into the dark as if searching for a ghost. The thought of sleep frightened her. She feared the dream and dreaded its return.

When Picard's disembodied voice came over the ship's system and alerted them to the Romulans' presence, Mosel was alert instantly. He leapt from the bed and immediately reached for his uniform, his eyes barely open. When he noticed that Deidre was also dressing, he paused.

She caught his confused gaze. "I'm coming with you." She said it bluntly, coldly. Determined.

He sighed and continued to pull on his boot. "Very well," he said. Be damned if he would try to dissuade her.

As they left, she made sure the twins' bracelet was clasped to her wrist. This is for you, she thought.

They went directly to the conference room. The senior staff of the _Enterprise_ awaited them, Picard sitting at the head of the long table. Jean-Luc raised his eyebrow at her presence, pleased. He had not been certain that, due to her recent condition, she would still be willing to participate. He had considered her request seriously, and, after working out several scenarios with Lieutenant Worf, they found one that could work. Possibly.

Conversation paused as they entered the room and she glanced at the faces, some familiar, some not, and some purely alien.

Worf noticed her stare. "I am a Klingon," he said proudly.

She nodded timidly. "Indeed you are, sir." She was polite, but took care to sit Mosel between herself and the brooding giant.

Introductions were passed around and after the initial briefing, Picard addressed the issue at hand.

"They sure picked a hell of a time to arrive," the bearded Riker said, stifling a yawn.

"No, it's perfect," Picard said, glancing out the windows where the cloaked warbird waited.

"Sir?" Worf appeared perplexed. Deidre got the impression that 'perplexed' was not a feeling Worf was often familiar with.

Data took the opportunity to intervene. (And Deidre hadn't a clue what his species was, and she was not bold enough to ask.) "I believe I understand what the captain means," he said. "It is likely the Romulans believe that we are unaware of their presence. They assume we would have contacted Starfleet and either moved the conference, or increased security measures, had they been discovered. Since neither event has occurred, they feel secure in returning to observe us."

"We cannot allow them to monitor this conference, captain," Mosel said. "As you are aware from our earlier conversations, Cardassia considers your dealings with your citizen a private Federation matter." He motioned briefly to Deidre, who glanced at him in surprise. She had not yet observed him switch from lover (at any other time this thought would have pleased her) to diplomat. It was almost startling how swiftly and brutally the change occurred: he was a natural politician. "However," he continued, "the treaty negotiations are crucial to the continued good relations between our two peoples. And I don't need to remind you that none of the amendments made thus far to the treaty are valid until my government approves them, and that would be difficult to achieve if we were to withdraw from this summit due to _security concerns_, effective _immediately_."

Strike that, she thought. He was a ruthless and bloodthirsty politician. The best kind.

"Gul Mosel," Picard said, as Riker glared down the table at the Cardassian. "The Federation holds this conference in the highest priority." Picard smiled congenially, as if the time they spent together in Deidre's quarters mere hours ago had not existed. "We are fully prepared deal with this issue."

"I hope so, captain. For your sake."

"We will need your cooperation," Picard said. "Both of you." He gestured to Deidre. And he proceeded to tell them his plan.

A short time later, a small group formed in Transporter Room Three.

"Are you ready?" Mosel, Riker, Deidre and Worf waited on the transporter platform as O'Brien fidgeted with the control consol. Mosel had asked the question, while briefly, yet intimately, touching her elbow. The gesture was lost on neither Riker nor Worf.

Deidre turned to Mosel. "I'm ready to kick some Romulan ass." She said it humorlessly and waved the phaser Worf had given her.

"Careful!" Mosel held up his hands in mock defeat. "Do you even know how to use that?"

"Not really." She tucked the phaser in the weapons belt Worf had given her as an accessory. "But it'll teach me for leaving my shillelagh stick back in Ireland."

Worf, who waited on the pad behind them, took an interest. "I've never heard of that weapon," he said.

"Oh, it'll knock you flat," she said, though she had a hard time imagining that anything could knock out this particular alien.

Mosel grinned, although he could not say exactly what a 'shillelagh' was either.

"Ah, here we go," O'Brien said. "I've masked your transporter signatures so it appears as subspace static. You shouldn't have a problem beaming in undetected."

Beverly had also contributed, injecting each of them with a neural inhibitor that would block the Romulan internal scans. ("It's still experimental, but it should work, at least for a time. No longer than thirty minutes," she warned them. Riker had assured her they would return in twenty.) For precaution, Mosel and Deidre were also each given a comm. badge. It looked conspicuously shiny on Mosel's black uniform.

"Very good, Chief," Picard said, as he waited beside the platform. "I wish you all good luck." It was as simple and heartfelt goodbye as he could manage. The task was theirs now and he had assembled a competent and dedicated team.

"Thank you, sir," Riker said. He had assumed leadership with his usual aplomb, though he was initially reluctant to allow Deidre to accompany the mission. Although he debated it privately with the captain as they walked to the transporter ("She is completely inexperienced and a liability," Riker argued), Picard's mind was set ("She'll do whatever it takes to get the job done. She's earned the right to fight, number one").

"Now," Riker said, turning to Mosel and Deidre. "To make it clear: you are to find the lab—."

"Yes, yes," Mosel interrupted, mildly irritated. "And we will transmit the data back to the _Enterprise _while you disable the cloaking device." Mosel approved of Picard's plan: the captain intended to confront the Romulans', to demand an explanation of their presence and to reveal their interference formally to the Cardassian ship (after the data logs had been transmitted, of course). Gul Mosel would have done the same, and had instructed his ship to support the _Enterprise_, even if it came to a battle. However, he doubted the Romulans would risk a confrontation with both the Cardassian Union and Federation after being caught crossing the Neutral Zone.

"And set your phasers to stun," Riker snapped, equally irked. Worf snorted his disapproval.

Picard nodded, and O'Brien set the controls. "Good luck," the Chief said, as he looked at Deidre. He had only met her once, but he was worried for her.

The group dematerialized.

Moments later…

"It's feckin' dark in here! Where did he beam us, into a supply closet?" Deidre's elbow smacked something hard and bulky. "Sorry, Worf." The Klingon grunted.

"Sh!" Riker hissed. He pulled out his tricorder. "It's a docking ring."

"There's an exit on the port side," Mosel whispered. He pointed toward the wall, but his hand disappeared into the darkness.

"How do you know?" Worf growled, suspicious.

"Cardassians are adept at moving about in dim light," Mosel replied, exasperated.

"Enough of this," Riker said, moving toward the door. He replaced his tricorder with a phaser. "Come on." The group followed him to the door.

Riker stuck his head out and peeped down the corridor. He gestured for Mosel and Deidre to exit; Ellil insisting he lead, phaser in hand. Riker and Worf went the opposite direction, disappearing down a bend in the hall.

"What if we run into one of them? A Romulan?" she whispered, following closely behind him as they crept along the side of the corridor.

He swiftly motioned her against the wall and raised the phaser, but no one appeared. "False alarm," he said, and they started again. "And if we meet one of them," he glanced back over his shoulder, "shoot him."

Deidre nodded and gulped. Her nerves had settled quickly; this ship did not look particularly intimidating. Though she had not yet seen a 'Romulan', her blood was already heated. These bastards, she decided, had a lot to answer for. She drew her phaser from its pouch. Mosel, meanwhile, acted as if he crept around strange, alien ships every day of his life. (Perhaps he had, Deidre thought. Cardassian hobby?)

"The lab should be up three levels," he whispered, finally finding the object of his search: a small maintenance tube opening. "If La Forge's scans were accurate."

She glanced down the corridor. "Let's hope so," she muttered, as he knelt and fiddled with the locking device on the door. "Hurry," she hissed, "there's someone coming!"

"I don't hear anything," he said, grasping at the door handle. It refused to turn.

She pointed her phaser down the hallway. "Trust me."

"Got it." The door swung open heavily. "Get in." He all but pushed her into the tube. She landed on her shoulder with a muffled yelp. He crawled in after her and shut the door; it closed with a slight click. Moments later, a pair of boots tromped down the corridor. They crouched with bated breath inside the tube until the footsteps faded safely away.

"That was close," she gasped. She pulled at his sleeve. "Hey, how do we know when Commander Riker and Worf get the cloak off-line?"

"We'll know," he whispered. "I have a feeling it'll cause a stir." He glanced down the tube and got on his knees. He brushed past her, the tube too narrow for them to proceed alongside each other. She reached out blindly for him in the dim light, grasping his shoulder. She didn't know what she intended to say, so she simply held him. He grasped her hand and pressed her against the tube wall, his mouth suddenly on hers. Then he released her abruptly and continued down the tube.

Perhaps, she considered, he was a bit nervous, too.

She crawled after him, finding it uncomfortable and awkward after the first few minutes. The tube was warm and crowded; the only illumination came from the various flashing lights on the maintenance panels that lined the walls. It stretched before her in a never-ending expanse until it ended suddenly at a ladder.

"We go up," he said. Reaching out, he grasped a rung and pulled himself onto the apparatus. "Do you require assistance?" he asked, looking down over his shoulder.

She followed his gaze and stared down the descending tube, the ladder dropping several decks.

"No, I'll manage." It's just like a fire escape, she thought, just like sneaking up the side of a building. And breathe, she reminded herself, taking hold of the rungs and hauling herself onto the ladder. If inching along on their knees had been bad, she thought a moment later, this was absolutely _tripe_. She stopped counting the rungs after fifty.

"This can't be right," Mosel muttered. "Where the hell are they taking us?"

"How do you know where we're going?" she hissed irritably, noting in the back of her mind that they had a tendency to get lost together. This worried her somewhat.

"La Forge showed me the layout of the ship before we left. It was his best estimate, at least, based on the particular output of energy signatures." He glanced down the tube and then back up, gritting his teeth. There did not appear to be an opening.

"And what, you memorized it?"

"Cardassians are known for their, how do you say it? 'Photographic memories'." He started climbing again.

She snorted. "I guess we can't stop and ask for directions."

"No," he snapped. "We can't." At last, he thought, spying a small hatch ten meters from where it should have been. Trust humans to have faulty information. "Here it is," he said after an interminable climb. He fiddled with the latch and it swung open easily.

They emerged into another tube. "It shouldn't be much further," he said, crawling again on his knees.

"So help me," she snarled, "it better not be." She watched him crawl forward for a moment. "You know," she said, "your ass is sexy when it wiggles like that." He twisted his head around, startled. "Seriously. Really sexy." She slapped one of his butt cheeks. "But if you don't hurry up, I'm going to shove my phaser up it. Creeping around like this is utter shite."

"If that is your command," he said, equally amused and confused. Having not encountered this aggressive quirk in her personality since her initial arrival, he remembered he rather liked it. He picked up his pace and, true to his word, an exit hatch appeared before them a few minutes later.

She peered over his shoulder but he nudged her back. "Let me go first," he said, still clutching his phaser.

"What, think I can't handle them?"

"Do you know where you're going? Hmph, that's what I thought." He cracked the door and leaned his head out, glancing from side to side. "It's clear." He crawled out of the tube, Deidre following closely. She landed with a slight 'plop' on the floor.

"I'm getting too old for this shit," she muttered. Mosel beckoned her down the corridor and she caught up with him.

"The main lab should be in here," he whispered, "if La Forge's data is accurate." However, if their luck continued, he mused, they were just as likely to stumble into a Romulan toilet.

She nodded and assumed her position against the wall on the opposite side of the door. She held her phaser up to her face, prepared to lunge forward into the room.

He watched her with interest. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"What does it look like?" She gestured with her weapon as if he were daft. "I'm preparing to aim and fire. It's how all the people on TV do it."

"You're insane," he snapped. "You don't know what you're doing." She glared at him, indignant. Suddenly, he smiled, much to her confusion. He considered her for a moment, despite their precarious situation. If she was so charmingly willful with him everyday, he thought, he would be a happy man. "You know, I think I'm falling in love with you." He had not meant to say it, yet she looked so ridiculous, and her passion was so heartfelt, that he respected her dedication.

She let a beat pass, and then hissed: "And you're jumping the gun on that. Bloody amadán." She nodded toward the door. "On three, aye?" He nodded, bemused. "Ok, one, two--." Mosel opened the door.

He leapt into the room, firing at the first Romulan he saw. The man fell, clutching his chest, his mouth open in surprise.

"I said on three!" Deidre yelled as she lunged into the room after him. A man fell to her left, but another was rushing out the far door. She fired her phaser, aiming for his backside but burning the wall next to him instead. He staggered away from the blast and she fired again, a beam of orange light ricocheting off the door. "This feckin' thing is useless!" she screamed and threw the phaser in frustration at the Romulan. It smacked his head and he slammed face-forward into the wall. He crumpled to the floor.

"That was effective," Mosel said, dragging his kill (Had they said stun? Merely an honest mistake) off to the side.

"Aye," she said, surprised. She approached the Romulan. "It was." Grasping the man's hair, she lifted his head and twisted his face around so she could see him. He did not look particularly different than a human, aside from his Ace Ventura eyebrows. She scowled and slammed his head into the deck. "Bastard," she hissed, releasing his hair. Mosel watched as she drew back her leg and kicked the Romulan violently in the ribs. Twice.

He approached the control consol, which had been the scientists' focus before they were killed. "We have a mission to accomplish," he reminded her. She glanced at him, struggling to emerge from the desire for revenge which had overwhelmed her. The hatred rose in her throat like bile.

She swallowed and sneered. "You look like you know what you're doing," she replied, but she stopped kicking the Romulan. She walked in front of the consol. "What is this thing?" Stepping back, she examined the podium in its entirety. What looked like a giant bull's-eye extended out of the center, controlled by various gadgets and switches on the other side. A transparent screen separated her from Ellil.

He fiddled with the controls. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure? And you're messing with it?" Had he never heard the phrase 'curiosity killed the cat'? She raised her eyebrow, taking a step backward. Stumbling, she suddenly found herself on a slightly raised platform.

"I'm trying to turn it on," he said. "I need to transmit its data to the _Enterprise_." And to the _Saharon_, he added mentally, but she needn't know that. Let the Detapa Council and Central Command feast on this information, he thought smugly.

"You could always do it the old-fashioned way," she said. He glanced up, curious, and she raised her phaser in imitation. "Give it a good smack."

"Clever girl," he said, and suddenly the controls were illuminated under his hands. "Perfect. This should work." He established two concurrent links, hardly aware that he had activated the device until Deidre's voice startled him out of his work.

"Ellil…?" she gasped. He looked up and saw a yellowish light emitting from the consol. Deidre levitated slightly above the platform, the light (obviously some sort of minor tractor beam) holding her in place. She struggled against it but remained suspended.

He glanced down at the consol. The link was almost established, the download would soon begin, but Deidre's breathing was rapidly increasing in tempo.

"It hurts," she said. "The more I move, the stronger it pulls."

Torn between the consol and Deidre's plight, he glared at the controls. Making his decision, he leapt from the podium and approached her. He grasped her hand and felt the same pull against his flesh. He wrapped his arms around her to pull her down, but felt himself being drawn into the energy beam. He gave a short cry as his feet left the ground.

"Great," she hissed, the pain nearly overwhelming her. She glanced at Mosel as he levitated alongside her. "Now what do we do?"

He struggled against the light but found that with every movement sharp currents of electricity passed through his extremities. "I don't know," he gasped.

"Stop moving, please!" Her voice was ragged. "It hurts me, too, when you do that."

He ceased his resistance. The pain lessened somewhat. "I'm going to get us out of here. Just hold on."

"I'm waiting," she gasped.

But Mosel had nothing. Suddenly, the beam began to pulse. They cried out together as particles erupted from the base of bull's-eye, visible to their naked eyes. Their bodies were bombarded by the emissions, the pain indescribable.

"Deidre," he gasped, but she did not respond. He saw a tear course down her cheek, her mouth open in a silent scream. His body felt invaded at its core, his organs pushing outward. Suddenly, the particle emission ceased. They glanced at each other in wonder. A second later, a blast shook the room.

"What was that?" she panted. They still levitated, but the pain had lessened once the particles were removed.

He breathed more freely. "I imagine Riker and the Klingon have deactivated the cloaking device."

"That was subtle," she said. However, it was only a momentary lull before the ship was rocked again, this time more severely.

"We're being fired on!" he exclaimed. Another explosion, this one near by. Sparks erupted from the podium. "Look out!" he yelled, as the beam of light disappeared. Immediately, they plummeted to the floor, bouncing against the platform as they hit.

The last thing Mosel saw, before slipping into unconsciousness, was Deidre crumpling to the ground, blood oozing from her brow. He reached out to her, the world blackening around his eyes. His head hit the floor with a soft thud, and then there was nothing.

The steady beeping woke her.

She recognized that sound. Opening her eyes, she stared into the bright lights of sickbay. Wincing, she shielded her eyes with her palm, and was pleased to find that this movement did not cause her any undue pain. Gingerly, she sat up.

Starfleet medical staff bustled around the infirmary, talking amongst themselves. She examined herself briefly: nothing to worry about there, she decided. She spied Dr. Crusher tending to Worf in the corner, using a hand tool on his leg. Picard and Riker hovered over the Klingon's bed, discussing something in low, urgent tones.

"You're awake," a voice said to her left. She turned and saw Ellil propped up on a bed next to her. She smiled, immensely relieved.

"You're all right," she said, unnecessarily. He grinned at her with the thin lips and chin tuck which Deidre came to realize were a Cardassian trademark.

"And so are you," he said. "A bump on the head, which Dr. Crusher has already cured."

She raised a hand to her forehead, fingering a bit of dried blood. "You know," she said, glancing at him and noting that the only thing amiss was his regularly tidy appearance. Strands of hair fell errantly into his eyes; she had to admit the effect was handsome. "We have to stop meeting like this."

He looked at her, puzzled, but upon seeing her smile he threw back his head and laughed. He extended his hand and she took it, sharing his laugh. He gripped her fingers, enjoying the feel of her skin against his.

"What happened?" she asked. "After the ship was attacked?"

"Apparently, the Romulans weren't pleased when Riker dropped their cloak," he said, still holding her hand. "They fired upon the _Enterprise_ and when the _Enterprise_ did not return, the _Saharon_ took up a defensive action. As per my orders. Riker and Worf recovered us and beamed out before the Romulans entered warp." Mosel had wagered on the Romulans not wanting to face a combined Federation-Cardassian front, and he was right. Now he would let the Detapa Council deal with the diplomatic consequences.

"Sounds exciting," she said. "I'm sorry I missed it." She squeezed his hand. "What about the experiments? Have they had a chance to review the data from the ship?"

He paused, unusually non-committal. Glinn Tedre had already been in sickbay to report that the _Saharon_ had not received the download from the warbird. Needless to say, Mosel was enormously displeased. Captain Picard approached at that moment, delaying his need to answer the question. They released their hands reluctantly and glanced at the captain as he neared the beds.

"It's good to see you well," Picard said. "Both of you." He observed Mosel. "As for the data, Deidre," he continued, having overheard her query, "unfortunately the download was interrupted before the transmission could be received. We were unable to establish the link again." Picard glanced again at Mosel in accusation.

"Yes," Mosel explained, unfazed. "The apparatus the Romulans were using for their experiment activated while we were attempting to initiate a data stream. As I explained to you earlier captain, we were caught in it for a length of time."

Deidre assumed he had spoken with Picard before she regained consciousness. Now, she was curious. "What exactly did that machine do?"

"We've analyzed the tricorder readings that Commander Riker brought back," Picard said, "We believe it was designed to release a genetically enhanced virus into the patient's system. We found traces of the virus on the platform, but unfortunately, the samples broke down too quickly without a biological host and we were unable to study them."

Mosel was concerned. This was new information. "Was the virus a form of nanotechnology?" Deidre's glanced between the two, confused.

"No," Picard replied, concerned. "We haven't encountered this form of biological mutation before." Picard and Mosel shared a troubled frown.

"Hello?" Deidre said, grabbing their attention. "Have I missed the most important part here? Are we infected with this _thing_?" The thought scared her shitless, she admitted, and she forced herself not to panic. She drew her knees up to her chest protectively, worried.

"No, no of course not," Picard said, comfortingly. "We believe the apparatus was shut down before it had a chance to complete the transfusion. Dr. Crusher thoroughly examined both of you upon your return. You are perfectly healthy." He smiled at her.

Deidre shared a brief, worried glance with Mosel. Both of them knew the machine finished its work before the explosions started, but following Mosel's lead, she kept silent. She returned the captain's smile weakly.

"That's good to know," she said. She swallowed and looked him in the eye, noting his almost fatherly concern.

Mosel rose from his bed. "I need to return to my ship, captain," he said. "I trust my presence here," he gestured around the sickbay, "is no longer needed."

"I look forward to discussing these events with you further, Gul Mosel. At your convenience." Picard nodded politely.

Mosel returned the motion and Picard took his leave, tactfully allowing them a private moment.

"You could have left a while ago," Deidre said accusingly, as Picard walked away.

Ellil came to the bed and took a seat beside her. "I wanted to make sure you woke up and still remembered me," he jested, recalling her previous difficulties. She smiled wearily to please him. He was aiming for jovial, but only managed silly. How very un-Cardassian, she thought, and realized she was starting to use a new thought pattern. Her new vocabulary pleased her. Perhaps she _could_ learn to fit into this brave, new future.

"At least I didn't scream at you this time," she said, nudging him with her shoulder. She leaned forward and kissed him, lightly, mindful of the roomful of people. He put his hands on her shoulders and brought her briefly nearer.

When they parted, he smiled. "I prefer that greeting by far." He felt the stares of the nurses and other patients. "They're looking at us," he whispered.

"I know," she said, her glance shifting around. "And I don't care. Will I see you later?"

"Yes. Ten Forward, dinner?" he asked.

"Aye, I need to thank Guinan for the bottle."

"I'll see you," he said, kissing her brow before standing. She watched him stride out of sickbay, his gait graceful and imposing. Such a strange creature, she thought, but certainly a loveable one.

Love. She considered it. Perhaps, she thought. In time.

She settled back into bed, awaiting Dr. Crusher's permission to depart. Gazing at the ceiling, she considered where life had led her. It was too early to say for sure, of course, but things were getting better. The sleepless ache rose behind her eyes and she let herself doze for a moment.

Domhnall and Brían's faces crept into her thoughts, sneaking out of the part of herself she now reserved for sorrow. It seemed the pathways of her grief were as permanently etched as if they had been there a lifetime. She could follow that path back, any time she wished, and revisit that horrible day.

But for now, she tenderly, lovingly, pushed her brothers back into her heart, putting their memory away for another day. For now, she was alive, against all the odds, and she did not intend to waste a second of her precious life. We are all here in the blink of an eye, she thought, and sometimes we need to be calm and savor that beautiful blink.

And so she wakened, and took a good, long look at her wonderful, promising new world.


	14. Chapter 14

Timelines: Chapter Fourteen

"_She is handsome, she is pretty, she's the belle of Belfast city. She is a courting, one, two, three. Please won't you tell me who is she?"_

"I'll Tell Me Ma"-- Traditional Folk Song

Counselor Troi's office was impeccably tidy. As usual. Deidre normally did not prefer Deanna's color scheme in the office: it was oppressively pastel (in fact, she had noticed that most futuristic designs were colorfully and boringly neutral), but today the pale mauve and blue calmed her nerves. It had been another bad night.

"Why don't you tell me about it?" That was Deanna's favorite question, which Deidre could count on being asked at least once during their daily sessions. It had been nearly six weeks since the hypnosis and the dear counselor had not missed a chance yet.

"Well," Deidre responded, formulating her answer into words Troi found acceptable. "It was after I taught my evening yoga class, when I returned to my quarters. I just looked around, and it was all so empty. I mean, there's nothing of mine in my quarters. No pictures, no mementoes, no souvenirs from holiday." She glanced disconsolately around the office and twisted a tissue in her hands. "I have no reminder of who I used to be. It's all gone, and I'm having a difficult time accepting that." What she did not confess to Deanna was that, when Ellil arrived for a late supper, he had found her sobbing on the floor of her bathroom; and instead of eating, he simply held her while she blubbered, frustrated and unable to tell him why she could not stop weeping.

Deanna nodded, sympathetic. "It takes time to rebuild a life. You have made enormous progress these past few weeks," she encouraged. "Examine all you've accomplished instead of dwelling on what you've lost."

"I really do understand that," Deidre said. It had taken her time, but she could finally acknowledge Troi's perspective. However, when the grief claimed her, as it had last night, those words offered little comfort. "I just feel that I'm slowly picking up the pieces of my old life, but it doesn't fit in with my new one. I feel out of place. Incongruous, really." She attempted a sarcastic harrumph.

Having never dealt with such an unusual case, Deanna could only pretend to empathize. She was on a learning curve with Deidre, but she knew the daily sessions were having a positive affect. When the counseling began, oftentimes Deidre would be overwhelmed and their hour would end in tears, Deanna being only able to offer a comforting presence. Now, however, she was making her first baby steps toward recovery, and Deanna was glad to note that most of the time, Deidre seemed aware of her progress.

"And how is Ellil handling all of this?" Deanna asked. At first, she was surprised to find that the Cardassian remained steadfastly in Deidre's life, but she sensed that his intentions, despite all of her misgivings, were heartfelt. It had been odd to think of them together, but she also sensed that Deidre was becoming increasingly fond of him in return.

"He's handling it better than I am," she replied. "I know it must take its toll, but…he's very patient."

"Have you decided what you're going to do after the treaty amendments are ratified tomorrow?" Deanna asked. The conference, astonishingly, had carried on after the Romulan upset with relatively few delays. The Federation and Cardassia Prime had sent back their revisions to the proposed new amendments, and it was a matter of days before the conference officially ended, the treaty ratified.

Deidre shook her head. Deanna sensed this weighed heavily on her, though the woman did not say as much. "Jean-Luc seems concerned that my 'liberties' will be strictly limited when I go back to Earth. Apparently, there's a waiting list of people who want to run tests on me, interrogate me, lock me up in a lab, that sort of thing. And Ellil seems certain that it will be no different on Cardassia, if I were to return with him." She glanced at Troi and saw her eyebrows lift in surprise. "We've talked about it," Deidre continued, vaguely. "Ultimately it's my decision. I can choose which government will have a go at me." She said this sadly, discouraged. Although she appreciated Ellil's tender concern these past few weeks, relocating to an alien planet did not hold much appeal. However, neither did returning to a futuristic Earth. Thus far, she had found herself distinctly uncurious; her urge to see the new Ireland was overpowered by her unease. It would be too disconcerting to wander around her old home and find new people with strange customs going about their business on the same streets she used to walk.

She was so involved in her thoughts, she missed Deanna's last comment. "I'm sorry," she said. "Could you repeat that?"

"I asked if you planned on attending the party tonight," Troi repeated. "I think it would do you good to get out and away from your quarters, since they seem to be causing you some distress."

Deanna was referring to the social gathering being held in the holodeck later that evening. When Chief O'Brien had invited several of the crew to attend a post-conference celebration in his Limerick pub holodeck program, one thing had led to another, and soon half the ship was invited. Deanna knew that Captain Picard, Ambassador Nugal, and his human counterpart, Ambassador Shetfield, were attending ("One last gesture of goodwill," Picard had confessed in private). Although it was technically an informal affair, she knew he expected the senior staff to attend.

"I have to go," Deidre said with feigned exasperation. "Miles—I don't quite know how—discovered I play the fiddle and he absolutely insisted I play with his band at the party. He said it would fit perfectly with the pub 'theme'." Deidre had found his comment sadly humorous; in her day, a pub was a pub: it was its own bloody theme. However, she had agreed, reluctantly, but only after he assured her the tunes would be strictly traditional. Still, she was regretting it. (On top of dealing with her emotional baggage, she had been fighting off the flu as well. It had not been a good week.)

"I'll see you tonight, then," Deanna said. "I'm looking forward to it." She stood to indicate their hour was over. She smoothed her skirt and smiled.

"Thank you, counselor, I really appreciate all you've done," Deidre said with a small smile. She rose from the couch but a sudden dizziness overcame her. The blood drained from her face and she staggered backwards. It happened so quickly Deanna could hardly extend a helping hand before she dropped in a faint upon the couch.

"Troi to sickbay," she said urgently, tapping her badge. "Medical emergency in my office."

Deidre stirred on the couch, her lips and skin pasty white. "It's all right, Deanna," she said, sitting up slowly. She put her head between her knees and after a few moments, the dizziness passed. "I'm fine."

Nevertheless, Beverly arrived in short order, tricorder and medical kit in hand. Though Deidre tried to wave her away, Beverly ordered her to sickbay. "Healthy women do not faint," Crusher insisted. "Though I'm not surprised after what you've been through." She eyed her with medical imperialism and Deidre knew she would not win the argument. Submitting gracefully, she let Dr. Crusher escort her to sickbay with a thankful goodbye to Deanna.

Beverly examined her for nearly a quarter of an hour, frowning into her tricorder. "Well," she said finally, clicking her tricorder closed. "There's nothing wrong with you. Quite the opposite, actually." She smiled, and perhaps it was Deidre's imagination, but her eyes held an enigmatic glint.

Ignoring it, she said, "So, I'm healthy and free to go, aye?" She grinned, her legs swinging against the side of the bed.

"Not quite." Crusher glanced around sickbay and leaned forward slightly, ensuring their privacy. She paused for a moment and Deidre glanced suspiciously around.

"What is it?" she asked. Deidre had never considered herself paranoid (the occasional bout with a bad joint the only exception), but at the moment she was feeling uncharacteristically suspicious. Beverly's behavior worried her.

Beverly beamed and took hold of her hands. "You're pregnant," she gleamed. Even as she congratulated her, she sincerely wanted to be happy for Deidre, despite the uneasy feeling in her stomach. This was wonderful news for any woman, or so she had believed until that moment.

Deidre stared at her, frowning. Blood rushed past her ears, her pulse quickening. This was simply not possible. She said as much to Dr. Crusher, clasping the woman's hands firmly.

"It's impossible," she said, not looking at all pleased.

Beverly was taken aback. She did not want to overstep her bounds, but she was confused. "I thought you and Gul Mosel had a…relationship?"

"Yeah, but he's an alien. A different bloody species!" She shook her head vehemently. Maybe women in the future didn't have unwanted situations, she thought. She willed Beverly to understand. "I can't be knocked up! This entire situation is ridiculous!" Her heart was pounding and she felt faint. Again. A sick feeling crept through her stomach as she recalled the times she and Mosel had foregone protection (had not even considered it, really. What were the odds, after all?)

Beverly raised her eyebrows, and it was the only verification Deidre needed. She buried her head between her knees and moaned.

"This is just not my week."

Deidre practically stumbled to her quarters, dread dragging her footsteps down as if they were made of iron. Her mind was in turmoil. At one point, she glanced at the ceiling and scowled. Ok God, she thought, you can stop reining down the blows any time now. And speaking of: for God's sake, she moaned, this whole situation was beyond preposterous, not to mention highly implausible. Yet here she was, up the pole in the Alpha Quadrant. She wanted to scream out her frustration, but decided going bonkers in the turbo lift was a poor option. So she breathed, in for six counts, out for six counts. Be calm, she ordered herself.

Arriving at her quarters, she found Mosel already waiting with a cocktail in hand. She realized she was running late, as he was already dressed for the festivities (as much as he could spiffy up in his uniform, she thought). Even in her state, she had to admire the dashing figure he cut. And, she could not help but notice, this was beyond good timing. He would already be liquored up when they had their talk. She suddenly envied him, standing there blissfully unaware. She desperately needed a drink but realized that the habit was now forbidden.

He rose from the sofa to greet her, smiling broadly. "We're going to be late," he murmured into her hair as she embraced him.

"I'm just going to change," she said, releasing him. But not that great of timing, she thought, her heart pounding. She glanced around, unsure.

Mosel watched her walk toward the bedroom. She was…distracted, her uncharacteristic fidgeting said as much, but he chalked it up to nerves. "Are you ready to perform before a live audience?" he asked, as she rummaged around in the bedroom. She had played her guitar for him before, often as they lounged on the bed after love, the instrument resting on her bare legs, her flushed face tranquil as she hummed him some song or another. He found the entire effect lovely, and he was eager to see if the instrument she called a "fiddle" was equally as enticing in her hands.

"I guess so," she replied, emerging from the bedroom, although she still wore the same faded jeans and tank. She looked woefully at him, considering. She did want a family, she thought; it was never even a question of desire. She knew what she wanted since she was a girl, playing make-believe in her childhood dreams: a husband, two bouncing babes, and a white cottage with a loamy green yard. And it was a simple enough dream, she thought. And here she was, checking one item off her to-do list. Why was this so hard?

Ellil's eyes gazed disconcertingly into hers, concern for her spreading across his face as she lingered in the doorway.

Because, she answered herself, it wasn't supposed to be like this. Like what, she railed, like having a man who cares for me and desires me? Like having a man who has proven his worth? So what if I have to live in a starship instead of a duplex. Selfish girl, she thought, this is not your decision to make alone.

Suddenly, she was reminded of an old Lucille Ball show, "I Love Lucy," which she would watch with her mother on Sundays after mass as they prepared family supper. She almost chuckled when the memory sprang into her mind. She realized she wanted to sit on Ellil's lap like Lucy sat on Ricky's during the episode, and tell Ellil (her own personal Desi Arnaz, her Ricky), that she was going to have his baby. But somehow, she thought, just like Lucy, it wouldn't be as easy as that.

Mosel set his drink down. Her behavior was becoming increasingly peculiar. She lingered in the doorway, eyeing him with the most disconcerting look. Eager to break the silence, he said, "I have something to give you." He stood and went to his over-night case. Pulling out something flat and bulky, he held it behind his back as she approached him, still considering him with that odd look.

He held out his gift and she took it, glancing down at his outstretched hand. She put her hand over her mouth in surprise.

"Ellil," she said, almost in a gasp. In her hand was a framed digital print of the picture Dr. Crusher had found at the Genealogical Centre six weeks earlier. She ran her fingers over her brothers' grinning faces.

She remembered the day this picture was taken, shortly before her mother was diagnosed with the cancer that claimed her life less than a year later. The family had gone to the country on holiday. It had rained all morning, but toward noon the sun broke out amongst the clouds, the sky radiantly blue. They had pulled over in a small village to stretch their legs, the hounds leaping from the car the moment the door opened. Brían and Domhnall had chased them across the field and finally wrestled the dogs down, all in sight of the man who owned the pasture. Instead of getting angry, the man had gotten a good laugh out of it (calling it the best craic he'd had in a good while), and he offered to take their picture against the backdrop of his cottage.

Deidre remembered it as the last picture they took together as a family. She closed her eyes against the image.

Ellil studied her face, hearing her shaky breath. "I had it enlarged from the copy Dr. Crusher gave me when you first came onboard," he said, hesitantly. "I noticed that you are uncomfortable in here, and since your species seems to enjoy this sort of decoration, I thought it would make the place more homely….I hope I've done the right thing." He did not like to acknowledge it, but he was slightly nervous. She still had not spoken, nor looked up from the picture.

Deidre nodded slowly: yes, he had done well. Her eyes opened, glancing up at him with her blue stare. And suddenly, it seemed that everything would be all right. She clutched the picture and knew what must be done.

"Ellil," she said, "I'm going to have a baby."

Mosel would later swear that in that moment, his heart stopped.

"I visited Dr. Crusher today," she said, not knowing what else to do but continue. She looked down at the picture, gathering strength from it. "Beverly said that I'm about five weeks along, that everything is healthy so far, and that the baby is most definitely half Cardassian." She could not look up and meet his gaze; her heart pounded terribly in her chest.

Ellil was silent for a long while, his own heart hammering; he was sure he had not heard correctly. Yet she hadn't reassured him with a teasing grin, nor had she retracted the words. He suddenly had to take a very long, deep breath.

Stepping slightly forward, almost too near her for comfort, he reached out and tipped her chin upward. He stared at her, and to his surprise, she gazed at him with frightened eyes.

"I'll care for it," she said quickly, crumbling beneath the uncertainty. His glare, and his silence, unnerved her. "You don't need to be involved at all, if you don't want to. I'll accept full responsibility of it." In her mind, terminating it hardly seemed an option, and though the thought had crossed her mind in a brief, terrifying moment, she had brushed it aside in panic. She could not bear the thought of it. Although she had always been a proponent of the right to choose, she found that when it came down to it, she could not even consider it. Besides, she thought cruelly, mockingly, that's not what good Catholic girls did.

Mosel's fingers still lingered under her chin, though his hand shook. It was his future to be considered too, he thought angrily, as he heard her words. She had not paused to ask him what he wanted. Considering it in those short, momentous seconds, he found that he was genuinely overjoyed at her announcement. He did not want her to be frightened; to feel compelled to rectify what she felt was a mistake. All Cardassians cherished family: it was ingrained in their genetic social structure. Mosel knew he had waited an abnormally long time to start one of his own (long enough to warrant a few questioning stares from his peers and adamant disapproval from his parents). He almost smiled when he considered the shock his parents would receive if he brought his pregnant human home. Their response would not be pleasant, he thought, that was for certain.

Yet here he was, confronted by the woman who carried his first child: it was a sacrosanct position in Cardassian society. Based on that alone, he could be redeemed for actions. It all remained to be seen. Meanwhile, he admitted to himself that yes, he did want this child. This life with her in it. The thought of abandoning her suddenly repulsed him. Whether it was his Cardassian upbringing or his genuine affection for Deidre he could not determine, but he only knew that he wanted the baby, desperately, so much that his heart was filled to bursting at the thought of it. Desire welled in him, an overwhelming urge to hold her as closely and as delicately as he could, to let her essence seep into him. His baby.

But she was still distressed, trembling under his hand, so he lowered his fingers. Pressing his forehead intimately against hers instead, he whispered, "We're going to have a baby?"

She felt his lips move against her own as he spoke. "Aye." Her own mouth brushed back. He sighed and she felt his smile spread against her lips. When he laughed, joyfully, she scarcely believed the sound. She pulled away from him; it was her turn for incredulity.

"You're happy? About _this_?" she asked, hardly daring to hope. But this was Ellil, she thought, reassured. He would not mock her with a cruel laugh.

He gazed at her with tender, blue eyes. "If you're both healthy, and if you want me in your life, then I could not consider myself any happier," he said, his smile spreading wider. "A child!" he said incredulously. It was almost disconcerting to see it on his face, this pure unadulterated joy.

She exhaled in relief. "Oh, thank God," she said, and collapsed against him. He pressed her roughly to his chest as he leaned his head back with an exhilarated laugh. It was all right, she thought, everything was going to be fine.

Needless to say, they were astronomically late for O'Brien's festivities. And as it would be unseemly for Gul Mosel not to appear at the same party Ambassador Nugal and half his senior staff was attending, they had tidied up and departed Deidre's quarters in haste.

"How do I look?" Deidre asked, as they approached holodeck two. She did a quick spin in the corridor. (She had decided to wear her jade dress, the newest addition to her replicated wardrobe, and a pair of 'dancing shoes', as she called them. Frankly, Mosel could not tell the difference between these black flats and her regular shoes.)

He eyed her appreciatively, noting how the hem of the dress skimmed her upper thigh. "You're more beautiful than Arlis Prime during its auroral cycle," he said. He grasped her hand and twirled her into his embrace.

"Whatever that means," she laughed, as he drew her into a kiss.

It was uncharacteristic of him, but he could barely keep his hands away from her. He had often ridiculed other Cardassian couples for their lack of restraint, but he understood now that it was some biological urge. Whether it was a protective or cherishing impulse, he did not know; he chose instead to revel in it.

When they entered the holodeck, they found that O'Brien had programmed the door to open on the street outside the pub. Also, they discovered, he had programmed it to rain.

Mosel took an instinctive step backward into the safety of the corridor. "What kind of nonsense is this?" he criticized. "This is typical poor planning."

Deidre rolled her eyes at his flair for the dramatic. "No, mate," she said, grasping his hand. "It's just good old-fashioned Irish weather." With that, she pulled him into the holodeck and into the rain. Together they raced against its cold torrents and burst clumsily through the pub door.

This, Mosel thought, as he caught his breath inside the pub, was not what he expected. The room was as warm inside as it was cold outside, and the light was dim enough even for his sensitive eyes. (He wondered idly if the inhospitable Chief had programmed it that way purposefully for the Cardassians, but instantly dismissed the thought.) A fire flickered in a nearby hearth and the air held the din of music and chattering voices. The room, although it was large, was comfortably crowded. Mosel found it rather pleasant and was pleased to see that Deidre seemed genuinely delighted as she studied the interior.

Deidre immediately led him to the bar. On the way, they passed a group of younger Cardassian crew members, mostly low-ranking Gils, sharing a round of drinks at a small table. Mosel gave them an imperious glance as he passed and was satisfied when they nodded respectfully. (His attention may have been diverted lately, but he was still, first and foremost, their commanding officer. And he would not let them forget it.)

As they approached the bar, they found Guinan busily tending to her customers, sliding drinks up and down the counter efficiently, with nary a spill. Guinan and Deidre had become good acquaintances over the weeks, and Deidre hoped it would continue even after her daily stop-over at the bar ceased. Busy as Guinan was, she took a moment to nod a greeting to Mosel and to ask Deidre about her health.

"I'm as fit as that fiddle I'm about to play," Deidre replied, and gestured to the corner where O'Brien thumped on his bodhrán drum alongside the rest of the musicians.

Guinan looked down the bar as she simultaneously mixed a drink. "He's grumpy that you're late. He's had a holo fiddler filling in."

Deidre shrugged, a blush creeping across her cheek. "It couldn't be helped." She was a little perplexed at Guinan's knowing look, but she brushed it off (as she often had to do with this enigmatic woman).

"What will you have?" Guinan asked. She had slid her first drink down the bar and was already preparing another one.

Deidre glanced at Mosel, who returned it with an exasperated look. Deidre laughed and jabbed at him with her thumb. "He'll have a Guinness—he's already promised he'd try one—and I'll just have a soda."

After Guinan served them their drinks (both served in traditional pint glasses, much to Deidre's pleasure), they wandered over to the musicians' corner. Miles pulled Deidre aside with a quick, disgruntled look at Mosel, and handed her a fiddle replicated by the holodeck.

"This is incredible," she said, examining first her instrument and then the band. "How did you manage to find someone who plays the tin whistle?" She motioned to a man who busily tooted away.

"Oh, him?" O'Brien said. "He's just a hologram." He shrugged as if it were nothing unusual.

Well, that explained his costume, she thought. "It's brilliant," she said, and set her drink aside. Turning to Mosel, still clutching her fiddle, she leaned in conspiratorially. "Come get me in a few songs and we'll have a dance." She kissed him on the cheek, much to O'Brien's evident disgust (Miles's mouth hanging agape was Deidre's first clue) and gave him a swift pat on the bum. He smiled over his shoulder and meandered his way through the crowd.

"You know," Miles said, leaning into her shoulder with ale on his breath, "Forget the Cardie. I can set you up with a nice Irish guy."

She winked at him. "I know where plenty of them are, mate, if I ever need one."

Rolling her eyes, she turned to the musicians and O'Brien made introductions. They were a motley group and she liked them immediately. O'Brien had also either rounded up or programmed a full set of pub instruments, from an acoustic guitar to a tiompán and even a set of Uilleann pipes. She was impressed. He was right, she thought, the fiddle completed the ensemble. Drawing her bow across the strings, having properly rosined it, she was surprised at the warm rush of memory. How many times had she performed in a pub with a hat at her feet and a few coins scattered in the bottom? Pleased, she relished in the feeling and in the vibration of the wood. She looked to Miles, who seemed to be the band's informal conductor. The rest of the musicians had taken up their instruments and also waited for him.

"All right, lads," he said, taking up his bodhrán, "'The Boy in The Gap', and keep it steady."

Deidre laughed and struck her bow upon the strings at the count. She knew immediately that this was a strong group (which musicians were holograms she couldn't say, but the effect wasn't lost). She let the familiar rhythm drive her, her chin resting comfortably against the fiddle. The bow became part of her own arm as she played the strings; her fingers instinctively found their own comfort zone on this new instrument as the song carried.

Each song played seamlessly into the next as O'Brien shouted out a new tune. After a few reels and slip-jig, she glanced around the pub, which seemed to have appropriated a few dozen more guests. She spied Ellil near the fireplace, speaking with Captain Picard. As if he was aware of her gaze, Ellil caught her eye and gave her a small nod. She returned it with a quick flick of her wrist on the fiddle, the music lilting for a brief second. His smile widened, showing a flash of teeth.

She really was talented, Mosel thought after their brief, albeit heated exchange. Turning to Captain Picard, he politely resumed their discussion. It had surprised him that they were able to speak amicably, and was interested to find that they shared a similar distrust of the Breen's recent activity along the Demilitarized Zone. Never one to talk politics (except with Father, on some uncomfortable occasions), Mosel was momentarily delighted to find an equally keen observer. Picard's insights were a welcome relief after the uncompromising Cardassian perspective Father often argued. Having finished his second Guinness (he preferred the beer over whiskey, he decided, and it was infinitely better than the 'soda' he had sipped from Deidre's glass), he offered to get them another round.

When he returned, balancing his pint and Picard's wine glass carefully as he passed through the throng, he found the captain joined by Ambassador Nugal. Unfortunately, Mosel found his hearing to be somewhat debilitated by the roar of the crowd, and lost most of Nugal's greeting in the din. Or, he considered, maybe the beer was stronger than Deidre had led him to believe. ("It goes down like water, honestly. Can you believe it's still around?") However, he gave the Ambassador a courteous nod, which usually saved most awkward Cardassian social moments.

Picard glanced between the two men and sipped his wine. He was enjoying himself, but Nugal's sudden arrival set him on edge. He had never warmed up to the man.

"Gul Mosel and I were just discussing his reservations about the Breen encroachment along the border," Picard said, attempting to politely include the ambassador in their discussion. Unfortunately, he realized, it did not go well.

Nugal sneered. "Gul Mosel is inexperienced enough to think he is qualified to give an opinion on that situation." He glared authoritatively at Mosel in much the same way Ellil had stared at his Gils. "And he should take care to keep those opinions to himself."

Mosel gritted his teeth and closed his eyes briefly. Although Picard had said it in ignorance, it was the worst possible thing he could have referenced. But he imagined the captain was already aware of that, as Picard was draining his glass quickly out of discomfiture. Reminding himself of his position and that Nugal's favorable report to the Detapa Council was crucial, Mosel squashed his rebuttal. Instead, he nodded his head again.

"Ambassador Nugal is certainly more informed of the complexities of our diplomatic relations with the Breen than I am," he said. Turning to Picard, he offered his hand, adopting the human gesture of shaking hands (if only to give Nugal one more thing to criticize in his report). Picard grasped it with surprise. "Now, if you'll excuse me, captain, ambassador," he continued. "I promised my lover a dance, and the evening is wearing on." He had most certainly overindulged in the drink, he decided. With more than a hint of Dutch courage, he resolved to be as offensive as possible, with the feeling that Nugal was already forming his demotion recommendation in his head. Wishing them a pleasant time, he departed.

Picard noted that Mosel's actions were somewhat astonishing, and rather out of character, but with a glance at Nugal, he could understand why. Smothering a grimace with practiced ease, he turned to the ambassador.

"Well," he said, wishing he could make as swift an escape. "How do you like the décor, ambassador?"

Across the room, Mosel passed through the mingling crowd (though he noticed that most people stepped purposely out of his way). He came to the dance floor, which was actually a ring of low tables set around a wide open space. Finding an unoccupied chair at Glinn Tedre's table (Tedre and his companion, another Glinn—Galor was his name—gave him the mandatory polite nod, which he returned), he took a seat.

Observing the dancing couples from afar, he matched their movements to the rhythm of the tune. He counted the beat silently under his breath, sometimes arriving at a nine count and other times an eight count, depending on the melody, diligently committing the dance form and style to memory. He fitted the steps to the beat and count, and with mild amusement, caught himself tapping his toe along with the music.

He glanced at the band area and met Deidre's eyes. She gave him a pleased smile. Sipping from his beer, he heard the beat change almost imperceptibly. They had begun another song. He watched as she departed from her fellow musicians and mingled with the audience, playing her fiddle all the while.

Deidre moved about the dance floor and surrounding tables, stroking her bow across the strings with a passion. She played at each table momentarily, pausing long enough to give them a few bars, much to the listeners' delight. Passing by Worf, she grinned and circled him, trying to rouse him to dance, but he crossed his arms with an aggravated sigh. The audience clapped along with her when she exaggerated the swipes of her bow arm and danced a few steps in front of him. When the Klingon responded with a slight twitch of his eye, she winked at him and moved on. Mosel could not resist clapping his hands in delight with the rest of them.

The momentum of the tune increased and she circled around the dancers, adding a few steps to her gait. She approached Mosel's table just as the beat picked up its pace. With her fingers dancing against the frets and her bow flashing, she knelt in front of him. Her eyes held a mischievous glimmer as they captured his: I am playing this for you, she seemed to say, and I want all of them to know it. It lasted mere seconds, but he understood. His blood surged and he smiled widely.

His baby. Incredible.

The drum tempo increased and, rising from her knee, she moved on with a slight wink. Fiddling and three-stepping her way around the other side of the circle, she returned to the other musicians just as the melody changed. Mosel let out a slight 'whoop' with the rest of the audience and clapped enthusiastically. If the Glinns gave him startled glances, he did not pay them any heed.

The band played another song, winding down their set. Deidre hated to admit it, but even her brief six-week hiatus left her a little out of shape. However, although her fingers were starting to feel the pressure, she was light of heart. Playing for the eager and clapping audience was like a balm—it was a good night tonight, she was sure, and she played all the harder for it.

The reel ended with a round of clapping and cheers. Deidre bowed with the rest of the musicians—even the holo ones—and set her fiddle aside. O'Brien called for a short rest and instructed the computer to replace the real players with holograms to continue playing. Surprised, Deidre noted that only she, Miles, and the pipe player were tangible. Interesting, she thought. It explained why none of the other musicians moved around the pub as she had. Miles needed to update their programming.

She grabbed her soda and took a long swallow. Although watered down after their long set, it was still refreshingly cold. She approached Mosel's table, weaving her through the dancers. He pulled a chair out for her and she collapsed in it, drained. It was difficult to remain energetic without a good buzz, she realized.

After she took another drink, he introduced her to Glinn Tedre and Glinn Galor, respectively. She leaned forward and shook each of their hands, though they each seemed a bit uncomfortable with the gesture.

"How are ye," she said in greeting to each.

Tedre nodded politely. "This music is quite….riotous," he said. "Although, I enjoyed your playing."

She glanced at Mosel with a smile. "Well, thanks," she said, laughing. "It's what we're here for. Have you heard Irish music before?"

"We've never heard any human music," Galor said, his voice distinctly deeper than Tedre's. (Deidre noticed that the Cardassians spoke louder in the crowded room than did most of the humans. She chalked it up to poor Cardassian hearing.)

"Really? How does it compare with your music then?"

Galor considered it for a moment and chuckled. "Your music is liberated," he said. "Cardassian musical scores are more concerned with functionality."

"At best," Mosel said dryly. "There certainly is no comparison." Both Glinns nodded in agreement. "And," he continued, "I believe I owe you a dance." Putting his empty glass aside and ignored the confused stares of his officers (a Gul, dance? Stranger things had happened). As Mosel took her hand and let her on to the dance floor, Tedre and Galor glanced at each other, not exactly sure what was happening.

"It's a reel," she said, amused. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

He put his hand at her waist and brought her closer. "I think I have the basics," he said. The reel began, and he noted abstractly that it was faster than most of the other tunes played thus far.

Mosel guided her quickly around the floor, having already noted that in this particular form of dance, the dancers seemed to move in a leftward orbit. Their feet stomped against the wooden floorboards, and when she lifted her arm, so did he. Waist to waist, he turned backwards in a circle and then guided her forward as they twirled. When Deidre kicked up a leg, Mosel lifted his.

"How did you learn this dance?" she shouted, astonished, her voice competing with the holo fiddler.

He grinned and forced her harder against him. "I watched!" He spun her around, nearly lifting her feet from the floor, and kissed her roughly. (The Glinns' mouths metaphorically dropped for the second time in as many minutes as they observed.) She slid down his chest, supported by his arm about her waist, delightfully lightheaded.

They continued around the circle with the other dancers, toe-stepping and twirling. Passing Commander Riker and Deanna on their final loop, the counselor sent Deidre a pleased, if breathless, smile. Riker and Deanna were quite good dancers, Deidre thought, before she was swept into a spin.

The reel ended abruptly, as they all did, and Ellil and Deidre gripped hands as they stumbled from the dance floor.

"It's a simple dance," he exclaimed, collapsing into his seat, "but it is intensive!" Tedre and Galor shared another baffled glance.

Deidre laughed, a sheen of sweat forming on her brow. "Aye, that's why it's call a 'reel', because it sends you reeling!"

Before she had a chance to take her seat, a hand landed on her shoulder. She turned in surprise and saw Miles standing before her, clutching a half-pint.

"Care for a real Irish step dance?" he yelled over the music. "Let's see what you got!"

Deidre looked him up and down. He swayed a bit, but he was maintaining, barely. And, like a true Irishman, the more he drank, the more he riled himself up.

It could be fun, she thought. "Aye, all right," she said. Taking the last swig from her glass, she followed O'Brien out onto the dance floor, but not before sharing a glance with Mosel. He did not look pleased.

In the middle of the circle—the reel having thinned the dancers considerably—a natural opening had formed on the dance floor. Deidre and Miles assumed their positions in the open, spaced a few feet apart. Deidre spied Miles' wife, Keiko—whom she had met on occasion—watching them with interest. Mosel also had turned his chair to the dance floor and leaned forward, curious.

Miles called for another reel to begin and the holo musicians obliged. Deidre counted out the beats and found it was a six-eight count, more like a light jig. Well, if this is how he wanted to dance, she thought, and they began.

O'Brien's feet tapped against the floor in a typical pattern, and his arms opened wide in a hop-to-it sort of move. She clapped her hands in delight and followed after him, kicking into the air and landing on her toes, bringing her heels down with a sharp slap. Miles moved from side to side in the small space, his knees jerking out, seemingly errant. Deidre followed with similar toe-tapping, but ended with a kick sent straight out before her, striking the air. She let her arms lift away from her body slightly (oh, her dance teacher in primary school would chastise her for that, she thought briefly), and let her arms swing in rhythm at her sides.

Mosel, as he observed, noted that they were dancing with two separate styles. Chief O'Brien's movements were more whimsical and less structured as he moved his bigger body over the dance floor. Deidre's movements, he noted, encompassed a broader range of vertical leaps. She hopped, kicked, and tapped a pattern of notes on the floor, whereas O'Brien moved with the music. It was all very interesting, he thought, but he was glad he had not been asked to imitate this particular dance. (Although, he had to admit that he appreciated how her skirt flipped up when she jumped.)

A little crowd had formed around the dance floor. Picard had managed to tear himself away from Ambassador Nugal, Mosel noticed, as the captain lingered near the dance floor with Dr. Crusher. O'Brien's motions were getting more spasmodic as fatigue settled in, his forehead glistening sweat. Deidre's mouth was slightly open in a pant, her eyes bright. The people around the floor started clapping out a rhythm for the dancers, and Mosel joined in, his eyes on Deidre as she tapped and sashayed around the little space. He admired the impressive little display, though he knew of no Cardassian who would be caught dead doing it.

Deidre heard the reel enter its final chords. Miles was aware of it as well, and he carried his body around with a final bit of gusto. On the last few notes, Deidre kicked high off the ground, and to O'Brien's surprise, spun in a complete circle in the air before landing on the ground with a decisive cross tap.

He glared at her, breathless. "That's cheating!" he said. Winded, he bent over onto his knees.

"Aye," she gasped, in a little better shape. "It was. But it looked good, didn't it?" She laughed, and he joined with her. "Shall we get us a pint?" She nodded toward the bar.

"No," O'Brien shook his head. "I need to sit a moment. I haven't danced that hard since I was a schoolboy." He dragged himself to Keiko's table and plopped down in a chair. His wife had a drink ready for him. Briefly, Keiko and Deidre exchanged amused glances before Deidre shuffled her own tired legs off the floor.

"This is what humans do for amusement?" Mosel asked, as she settled into her chair. She noticed that Tedre and Galor eyed her with something akin to uncertainty. She hadn't danced that badly, had she?

She eyed Mosel. "We do a lot of strange things for fun. Better buck up or it'll be your arse out there next time." She reached out and took a swallow of his fresh beer. The last sip, she promised herself.

He shook his head. He wondered if all humans were this willful, and promptly concluded that they were.

"Look," she said, diverting his attention. "Captain Picard is going to make a speech." She gestured to Picard as he approached the musicians' stand. He raised his arms and called for quiet. Gradually, a hush descended over the pub.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Picard said, his deep voice reverberating across the crowded bar, "First, I would like to thank our wonderful performers tonight, Chief Miles O'Brien on the bodhrán, Ensign Justin Shaw on the Uilleann pipes, and Deidre O'Malley on the fiddle." He was interrupted by the mandatory yet enthusiastic round of applause. The three performers stood and took a short bow.

"And," Picard continued, once the final claps ceased, "I also want to thank Chief O'Brien for hosting us in his wonderful holoprogram. Well done, Chief." Another round of applause. "Now, I know all of you have worked hard these past few weeks to make this conference a success. My compliments go out to the crew of both the _Enterprise_ and the _Saharon_ for their perseverance and patience. Be proud of yourselves." He held up his hands to halt the applause, eager to finish. "And I'd like to give hearty thanks to Ambassadors Nugal and Shetfield: thanks to your dedication, the Federation and Cardassia are entering into a new, lasting era of peace."

The applause resounded loudly, with a few cheers from the crew of the _Enterprise_. He noted that Ambassador Nugal looked disgruntled and he smirked behind his wine glass.

"A toast," he said, "and then I'll let the band carry on. To our allies and friends, old and new!" He raised his glass and the audience followed suit, a few huzzahs ringing out. Picard drained his glass and gladly left the platform to the sound of more applause.

He crossed the dance floor, which slowly began to fill with people, and returned to Beverly, his eyebrows slightly elevated. "Well," he said, "that's over with." He chuckled.

She patted his arm. "It was a nice speech," she said. "The crew appreciated it, I think." She glanced at the people trickling on the dance floor. The real band, with the Chief, Ensign Shaw and Deidre, were taking up their instruments again. She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. "You've done well, Jean-Luc," she said, leaning into his shoulder. "With all of this." She caught his eye and guided his gaze out onto the dance floor, and motioned to two of the younger Cardassian officers who had bravely asked two human women to dance.

He nodded in understanding. "It's a significant step forward," he said. "For all of us." It was a bit odd to see the crews blending, but it was also encouraging.

"So," she said, tugging a bit at his elbow. "Do you want to dance, captain?" He eyed the dance floor warily and Beverly laughed.

He set his empty glass aside with a smile. "Very well," he chuckled. "If my chief medical officer insists." Putting his hand loosely on her waist, he guided her onto the dance floor.

Deidre played a few warm-up chords on her fiddle, observing Jean-Luc and Beverly do a few preliminary twirls. The dear doctor looked quite lovely, she thought. Beverly had changed from her customary uniform into a dark blue dress, and it complimented her figure. Deidre smiled as she watched.

Meanwhile, O'Brien drummed a few notes. "Do you know the words to 'I'll Tell Me Ma'?" he hollered to her.

"Aye," she said and, kneeling, propped her fiddle on her knee.

He raised his drum. "On a six count then," he said, and the music started up.

Deidre nodded and marked the beats on her fiddle. She joined Miles in the first words, their voices rising over the timbre of their instruments.

"I'll tell me Ma when I go home, the boys won't leave the girls alone," they sang, the words carrying across the pub. "They pull my hair and they steal me comb, but that's all right 'till I get home."

Miles tapped his foot as he beat at his drum, and Deidre smiled through the words, her bow flashing. "She is handsome, she is pretty, she's the belle of Belfast city. She is courting, one, two, three. Please won't you tell me who is she?"

And this, she thought, as she dashed her fingers across the fiddle and as the mixed crew danced jubilantly, is how we're supposed to be. United and exultant.

Later, as the crowd thinned and the music was mostly relegated to the holograms (Miles still sporadically insisting they sing yet another song and Deidre perpetually dodging him), she slipped through the crowd and found Mosel. He had found a perch at the bar, trading casual comments with Guinan as he tucked into his fifth, or perhaps it was the sixth, beer.

Deidre saddled up to him and put her hand at the small of his back. "I told you that you would like Guinness," she said, pointing to his empty glass.

Grinning, he slurred, "I'm obviously a man of distinguished taste."

"Oh, aye," she snorted, "definitely." She slid the empty glass away from his hand. "Take me home," she said, "before Miles makes me sing with him again." With a wink at Guinan, she linked arms with him and guided him from the bar. It was time to go home. Her feet and fingers ached pleasantly, filling her with a warm, comfortably feeling.

They stumbled a bit but made it through the pub and pushed their way out the door. They emerged onto the darkened Limerick street. The rain had tempered and fell in a light drizzle.

They paused outside the door and Deidre glanced down the street. Surprised she had not noticed it before, she found that the lane was lit by a series of gas lanterns. The dark buildings around her looked mostly the same as she remembered (having only visited Limerick once while on a pub tour with the twins), but the street, she noticed, was made of brick. She could only assume O'Brien's program reflected a nineteenth century overview of the Limerick, as the streets had certainly been paved on her last visit. It was interesting, she thought, and pretty, but not exactly the Ireland she remembered. (Though it suddenly struck her that the world she knew was closer to this time period than her current one. It was a disconcerting thought.)

Ellil swayed slightly at her side and she righted him quickly. "You're a right mess," she said, laughing.

He gave her a look. "Hardly," he argued, straightening his backside and squaring his shoulders. He gazed down the street. "So," he said, after perusing the holodeck scene. "This is supposed to be Ireland?" In his hazed mind, he found it a damp and dreary place, but he noticed that Deidre appraised the landscape with gentle fondness.

"Aye, the land of Éire itself," she said "in all its murky, wet glory. It's a bit odd to be seeing it again." Her voice was strangely choked.

Mosel glanced at her, surprised. "You'll soon return to it," he said, disheartened. Even with her sudden, happy news, they still had not discussed their coming separation. Her hesitation to determine her destination troubled him. (Although, he admitted through his alcohol-fog, the subject made him uncomfortable as well. There wasn't a 'good' choice in this scenario.) She shifted next to him, uncomfortable, and he asked, "What are you thinking?" He had always prided himself on his ability to assess people, but Deidre was infuriatingly unpredictable.

She considered for a moment and finally looked at him, the gravity of the situation weighing on her. "I don't think I can do it," she confessed. "Go back, I mean. I think it's changed too much for me. And I for it." Mosel's spirits rose, hesitantly, as she continued: "At first all I could think of was going to Ireland, because I miss my home. But over the last few weeks, as I thought about why," (with Counselor Troi's help, she added), "I realized that the Ireland I was returning to wouldn't be the same. And it scares me." Her pulse quickened as she realized the decision was slowly making itself for her. She pressed her hand against her stomach. How could she possibly return now?

Aware of her uncertainty, he lifted her hand and slid his thumb over her stomach, idly comforting. The moment was sobering. "If you return with me, it will not be easy." He paused for a moment. She remained silent, as if waiting for him to begin a list of reasons why it would be impossible. True, he was intimately aware of the difficulties presented, but he, too, kept his silence. The small space between them welled into a silent chasm, until his hand on her stomach was their only bond.

She nodded, slowly. "Nothing about this has been 'easy'," she said at last. "I think that time has long passed." She gazed at his face, a territory that had become so familiar to her, and she suddenly realized that her baby would share those soft ridges and the same dew drop on her brow. Deidre wanted it to be a mark her child wore with pride, carried with the same graceful authority as her father.

That was it, then, she thought. She glanced around at the deserted street, the dim roar of the pub lingering behind them. In her own way, she said a quiet goodbye to the cloudy sky, the wet street and the looming buildings of Ireland.

"I want to come with you," she said. And, strangely, with the decision lifted from her shoulders, she found she could breathe more freely.

Pleased, Mosel drew her against his chest, the gulf between them closing. "Thank you," he murmured. He did not know what he would have done had she refused to return with him; the thought had terrified him, though he was loathe to acknowledge it.

And it was decided at last, he thought. He held her gently, letting the rain fall softly around them. He looked to the sky and closed his eyes, letting the droplets fall on his upturned face.

It suddenly did not seem so dreary after all.


	15. Chapter 15

Timelines: Epilogue

"Earl Grey. Hot."

Picard sighed as he collected his tea from the replicator. The first sip soothed him, the familiar warmth, almost hot enough to burn, sliding across his tongue and down his throat. Lovely, he thought, just the way to begin the morning.

As was his custom, he gradually took to perusing the daily reports and crew schedules. With their brief stop-over at Starbase Eleven in the Denori sector, he had allowed the _Enterprise_ to maintain a skeleton crew, to the unanimous delight of all. As he browsed through his communiqués—mostly a collection of promotion recommendations and special supply requisitions—he noted a particularly unusual one sent from the Department of Diplomatic Affairs. If it turned out to be another assignment to host a treaty conference, he thought ruefully, he was going to pass it off to the _Odyssey_ and let Captain Keogh deal with it this time. Though only half in jest, he opened the transmission with some trepidation.

Surprisingly, instead of presenting another outlandish and undesirable assignment, it simply contained a forwarded communication from Cardassia Prime. He smiled as he skimmed the letter and settled back in his chair for a closer read.

"Jean-Luc!" it began. He grinned. Trust Deidre's exuberance to carry over on to paper. He had wondered when she would update him on her "adventure" in Cardassian space, as she called it. He glanced at the stardate and was surprised to find the message dated almost seven months prior. The intergalactic mail system was getting a bit slow, he noted dryly.

The letter continued colloquially: "I would rather have recorded a message to send (apparently we can do that now! It kicks Skype's antiquated bum), but Ellil said that a written letter would pass through the Censorship Ministry (whatever that is) faster, so I hope this gets to you soon! (And please pardon my spelling and such, these Cardassian machines are hard enough to read, and I've never been much of a letter writer.)"

Picard had to roll his eyes. Trust the Cardassians to turn a personal memo inside out in search of subterfuge. He wondered how much of the letter had been deleted before its delivery to Starfleet. (Frankly, it was surprising it had been released outside of Cardassia at all. He hoped that was an encouraging sign.)

"I know we talked a lot before I left the _Enterprise_, but I wanted to thank you again for your kindness; truly, you made the weeks I spent onboard endurable. Your friendship truly means a lot to me.

"As you can see (or read, I suppose), I'm doing well. At least, well enough for someone almost three months pregnant and throwing up every morning (I told Ellil: no more fish juice, I just can't stand the smell)."—Jean-Luc had to smile here—"The crew on the _Saharon_ was a little put off by my shacking up with their Gul, so I pretty much stayed out of sight for most of the trip back to Cardassia. I don't mind saying that it was a nerve-wracking two weeks. (I don't think I'll be getting back in a spaceship for a while. As unattractive as Cardassia is, I still prefer to have my feet on the ground with room to move.)

"The night we arrived at Cardassia Prime (what a crappy name for a planet—what do we call ours, Earth Prime?), we went straight to Ellil's home for supper. (Did you know that most Cardassians live with their parents all their lives, even after they're married!) Let me tell you, I was pretty damn nervous meeting Ellil's Ma and Da. I don't know quite how much Ellil told his parents before we arrived, but I certainly minded my p's and q's. His sister-in-law Kiral, who also lives with them (with her daughter, Pana, who is seven and as precocious and precious as they come), is married to his brother Sefil (who is assigned to Bajor, wherever that is). They were both pretty welcoming. Kiral works for the Science Ministry and apparently spends a lot of time off-world (not that I blame her), so she was able to program a human dinner into their replicator to welcome me. She replicated a pot-roast and spag-bol, can you believe it? I told her it was good, of course, though we usually don't eat them together!" Picard could hear her voice speaking the words, her gentle accent lilting up and down, and realized with a poignant smile that he missed her. "Still, Cardassian food is _nasty_, so I've been eating either the pot roast or the spag-bol nearly everyday. I would _kill_ for a nice greasy rasher on white bread.

"I'm getting off-track, I'm sorry. (I told you I wasn't a letter writer.) Ellil's parents weren't particularly happy to see me, and that's an understatement. Apparently, my new father-in-law is a big politician on Cardassia and he—." Here the words were deleted, obviously edited by the Cardassian Censorship Ministry, though the letter resumed shortly. "But they've gotten used to me, for the most part. Mrs. Mosel (I can't even begin to spell her first name, not that I call her by it) has even started to speak to me." Through the text, Picard could sense the loneliness behind the words. However, Deidre had seemed certain of her decision to return with Gul Mosel and she did not express a word of regret. Still, he worried for her.

"However," she continued, "the unhappier news is that, upon returning, Ellil submitted his resignation to Central Command. He is sure they planned to demote him and he's probably right. Needless to say, he no longer commands the _Saharon_. I told him I'd help him spiff up his résumé to find another job, but he said that's not how things work on Cardassia. He spends a lot of time with his father (damage-control, I would call it). Actually, his father has started to warm up to me a bit, I think, though that's probably because he believes I can provide him with useful information about humans and other strategic things. As you well know, I could tell him as much about current human political policy as I could about what goes in a hot dog, which is nothing at all (thank you very much). That's Ellil's take on the situation as well, and I'm of the same mind. His father even gave me a ring made of 'jevonite' (it's a family heirloom and Mrs. Mosel's eyes nearly popped out of her skull when he gave it to me). He's definitely trying to win my over. But, since Ellil felt bad that I didn't have a ring when you married us on the _Enterprise_, he insisted I take it.

"Kiral's daughter Pana, however, is absolutely delighted to have me around the house. She thinks of me as her little pet. She's even had a few of her school chums over to show me off. I've been teaching her to sing a bit, although after Mrs. Mosel heard the words to 'A Pirates Life for Me' she made us stop. Mrs. Mosel said it was subversive and anarchical and she wouldn't have her granddaughter disrespecting her family and 'The State'. Pana still hums it under her breath whenever she thinks Mrs. Mosel isn't listening, and she always gives me a good laugh.

"I can't believe I'm about to have my own little one. Ellil is more excited than I am, I think, but of course, he doesn't have to suffer through all the icky and uncomfortable side-effects! I'm more than a little scared, but since Dr. Crusher has agreed to come all the way to Cardassia to oversee the delivery, I feel better about it." Picard realized with a start that yes, Dr. Crusher would be leaving in a few days for Cardassia Prime. He had nearly forgotten. Time had passed without his even registering it. He remembered that she was not eagerly anticipating the trip, but as a favor, the good doctor had agreed, her distrust of Cardassian doctors overweighing her dislike of Cardassians in general. Picard shook his head; she really was a marvelous woman, his Beverly.

"Oh! And I guess I can tell you now rather than have Beverly surprise you when she returns: It's going to be a girl! Now it's hard to say who's more excited: me, Ellil or Pana. She's already deciding what school lessons she can teach to little Gormlaith or Yilar (we're still deciding on her name, though I think I know who is going to win this one…), and the babe hasn't even been born yet! (Ellil is surprised that it takes humans nine months, apparently Cardassian women are over and done with in five. Lucky them.) I can't tell you how disappointed I am that she won't be baptized, but it's simply not possible. I hope you'll still be her godfather, if only in name.

"In all honesty, life is going well, really. I'm happy with Ellil and he is over the moon about everything concerning the baby. My health is good (minus a bit of morning sickness, which seems to be gradually passing). I have the occasional headache, which I'll chalk up to the baby. Ellil has been having headaches as well, actually, really terrible ones, but we think it's just stress. (Still, I worry about him. He may be Cardassian, but he's sensitive.) None of this has been easy, but we're making the best of it that we can. It was the right choice, Jean-Luc. I feel it in my heart. I still miss home, of course, and Domhnall and Brían are never far from my thoughts. But Ellil's family is mine now, and I'm really starting to like Kiral and Pana. I think it's all going to be fine. I don't know what is going to happen to me here in the long run—so far, Ellil and his father have kept Central Command from breathing too far down my neck (but Ellil is sure his father's political sway won't delay them forever), but it's going to all right. It just has to be, I know it.

"I hope you're doing well, and please pass on my best to Deanna, Beverly, Miles, Guinan, and everyone else. I miss them terribly, too. And you, Jean-Luc, I can't wait to see you again, though I'm not sure when that will be. I'll stay in touch, promise. Ellil also sends his regards. God be with you, and may the wind always be at your back (or some such Irish saying, I can't keep them all straight). Love, Deidre."

Picard heard her smile in the words. He had to admire her bravery, and although he did not necessarily believe that Mosel had sent his regards or that he was in any way sensitive, Picard was glad that she seemed to have found a kindred spirit in so hostile an environment. He also eagerly anticipated seeing her again, sooner rather than later. Although he missed her laugh and her friendly banter, most of all, he missed her faith. She offered a refreshing relief in these often trying times. He hoped she was as happy as she claimed. He stood and stretched, taking his empty glass back to the replicator, ready to take his morning rotation on the bridge.

Although there was no way he could have known it at the time, as he readied himself for the day, it was the last letter he would ever receive from Deidre O'Malley.

Fin

_A/N: Don't run away too quickly, I have a sequel (or, if you prefer, Part Two) planned. I should be loading it soon in the ST:TNG/DS9 crossover section, rated M (for mature!). Thanks for reading!_


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